NOT  OF 
HER  RACE 


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NOT  OF  HER  RACE 


El  Molina 


NOT 
OF  HER  RACE 

NANCY  K.   FOSTER 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE  GORHAM  PRESS 
I9II 


Copyright  1910  by  Richard  G.  Badger 


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THE  GORHAM  PRESS,  BOSTON,  u  $.  A 


TO 

MY  SISTER 
MAUDE 


503503 

LIBRARY 


1 


Not  of  Her  Race 

CHAPTER  I 

Esteban  Ybarrando  the  summer 
had  been  an  intolerably  long  one. 
Two  years  had  passed  without  a 
"rainy  season"  in  Southern  Cali 
fornia,  winters  had  come  and 
gone  bringing  none  of  those  generous  down 
pours  that  mean  resurrection  to  tree  and 
flower,  earth  and  air,  beast  and  man.  From 
the  office  window  of  the  Chemical  Works  on 
this  October  day,  the  foot-hills  looked  gray 
and  bald  as  a  line  of  sand  dunes,  overhead 
the  clouds  were  threatening,  smothering — the 
glad  rain  was  surely  on  its  \vay.  Leaning 
above  the  tall  redwood  desk,  Esteban  felt 
suffocated.  As  the  afternoon  waned,  his  head 
bent  lower,  and  it  was  long  past  five  o'clock, 
before  he  stirred,  took  out  his  watch,  and  pre- 
9 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

pared  to  leave  the  office ;  his  movements  as  he 
put  up  the  ledger,  fastened  the  safe,  and 
locked  the  door  were  mechanical,  involuntary 
as  those  of  an  automaton— with  this  differ 
ence—they  were  full  of  grace.  Behind  the 
heavy  physique  of  the  Mexican  was  a  nervous 
organization  responsive  as  a  delicately  strung 
instrument. 

Under  a  long  shed  in  the  rear  of  the  group 
of  low  brick  buildings  that  made  up  La  Mer 
ced  Chemical  Works,  Esteban  mounted  his 
bicycle  and  was  turning  dowrn  the  highway  of 
eucalyptus  trees,  when  a  phaeton  occupied  by 
two  women  appeared  from  a  cloud  of  dust 
and  stopped  beside  him. 

"Is  Mr.  Woodbridge  here?"  inquired  the 
younger  woman,  raising  a  silvery  mull  veil 
from  her  face  and  looking  expectantly  from  a 
pair  of  sunny  eyes  at  Esteban. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  he  leaped  from 
his  wheel  and  went  up  to  the  vehicle. 

"No,  Senorita,  he  is  now  in  the  city  a 
week,  at  the  hotel",  and  Esteban  lifted  his 
10 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

hat,  bowing  deferentially. 

An  expression  of  disappointment  crossed 
her  face  as  she  turned  to  her  companion  and 
they  exchanged  a  few  hurried  words. 

Impelled  by  her  look,  Esteban  ventured, 
"On  Friday  Mr.  Woodbridge  will  be  at  the 
office.  Is  there  a  message,  Senorita?" 

"Thank  you,  no"— she  replied  hesitatingly, 
and  picking  up  the  reins,  she  said  good  even 
ing  and  drove  away. 

Esteban  watched  them  until  a  dust  cloud 
hid  the  phaeton,  then  striding  his  bicycle  he 
struck  out  across  a  less  frequented  road.  It 
was  heavy  with  dust  and  on  either  side  lay  the 
sunbaked  fields.  He  was  going  directly  to 
ward  what  appeared  to  be  a  mud  hut.  In  a 
parched  lot  close  by  a  large,  canvas-covered 
wagon  was  standing  and  two  lean  horses  were 
feeding  in  the  scorched  stubble.  About  the 
wagon  two  Mexican  women  in  bright  dresses 
hovered.  As  Esteban  came  nearer,  one  of 
them,  very  old,  stepped  up  into  the  wagon 
and  brought  forth  some  finely  woven  straw 
ii 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

baskets  and  flask-covers.  Hobbling  over  to 
the  roadside  she  grinned  and  offered  him  her 
wares. 

"Buenas  tardes,  Senor,  buenas  tardes", 
greeted  the  old  crone. 

Esteban  got  off  his  wheel  and  walked  over 
to  her.  The  other,  a  fat,  unwieldy  creature, 
squatted  on  the  ground  and  began  to  cut  up 
some  green  chilis  in  a  smeared  sauce  pan  that 
lay  on  a  bundle  of  twigs,  rolling  her 
eyes  and  making  absurd  grimaces  at  her 
countryman.  He  spoke  in  courteous  friendly 
tones  to  the  old  woman,  looked  at  her  wares, 
and  bought  three  small  baskets.  Voluble, 
gracious,  she  waddled  back  to  the  wagon 
to  fetch  him  two  large  pomegranates.  He 
took  them  and  departed  followed  by  a  "Gra- 
cias,  gracias,"  from  both  women. 

The  mud  hut  proved  to  be  a  crumbling 
adobe  of  two  rooms.  The  front  one  was 
Ybarrando's  house,  here  he  slept,  cooked,  ate 
and  studied.  The  back  room,  a  mere  shed, 
was  fitted  up  as  a  laboratory.  There  were 
12 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

two  small  deep  windows  in  the  large  room 
and  from  the  door  the  upper  panel  had  been 
cut  out  to  let  in  air.  The  floor  was  of  dirt 
and  the  walls  were  covered  with  plaster— 
an  adobe  plaster — roughly  laid  on  and  white 
washed.  In  a  far  corner,  close  against  the 
wall,  was  a  cot  covered  with  a  faded,  once 
handsome,  Mexican  blanket.  An  oil  stove 
and  some  cooking  utensils,  a  chair  and  large 
table  with  three  rows  of  shelves,  completed 
the  furnishings.  On  the  table  were  a  lamp, 
a  half-dozen  ponderous  text  books  on  chem 
istry,  and  copies  of  the  Engineering  and  Min 
ing  Journal;  the  rude  shelves  above  were  filled 
with  chemical  apparatus  and  with  bottles  of 
every  shape  and  size  that  shone  grotesquely 
with  silvery  flower-like  creations  of  mercury 
—this  was  the  one  bright  spot  in  the  dreary 
room. 

At  midnight  Esteban  was  still  over  his 
books.  The  streak  of  dawn  through  the  tiny 
windows  and  the  extreme  chill  of  the  room 
roused  him. 

13 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Rising  wearily  from  his  chair,  he  picked  up 
the  straw  baskets  lying  on  the  cot  and,  bend 
ing  down,  drew  from  under  the  cot  an  old 
trunk.  It  was  made  of  raw  hide  interwoven 
with  red  and  blue  canvas  and  was  fastened 
by  a  crude  lock.  Months  had  passed  since 
Esteban  had  opened  it.  Don  Dolores,  his 
father,  had  written  for  the  deed,  it  was  in 
the  inlaid  box;  the  belts,  too,  must  need  pol 
ishing;  and  the  earrings — perhaps  los  Ameri 
canos  had  stolen  them,  for  the  adobe  was  de 
serted  all  day. 

It  was  always  an  occasion  when  Esteban 
opened  the  rawhide  trunk,  always  a  half 
hour  of  boyish  delight  to  him.  In  the  narrow 
till  lay  the  inlaid  box.  Many  a  time  when  a 
child  had  Esteban  sat  at  his  mother's  feet 
counting  slowly  the  tiny  pieces  of  mother-of- 
pearl,  he  remembered  there  were  eighty  alto 
gether.  Opening  the  lid  he  took  out  an  old 
yellow  paper— the  deed— and  put  it  in  his 
vest  pocket;  then  he  proceeded  to  the  bottom 
of  the  trunk,  taking  out  two  splendidly 
14 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

wrought  silver  belts  and  a  pair  of  huge  tur 
quoise  earrings.  The  belts  had  been  worn  by 
his  mother's  Mexican  grandsire,  and  the  ear 
rings  of  turquoise,  inlaid  with  center  pieces  of 
abalone — rude  workmanship — each  piece  put 
together  with  tar — unmistakably  Indian  mo 
saic — had  adorned  what  dark-skinned  wo 
man  of  his  ancestry?  The  belts  and  earrings 
were  wrapped  in  a  bit  of  rose-colored  silk- 
remnant  of  a  rebozo.  About  these  barbaric 
trinkets  the  tales  of  his  childhood  clustered, 
and  the  treasure  box  meant  pictures  of  Old 
Spain.  Esteban  handled  them  admiringly,  as 
he  put  them  along  with  the  baskets  back  again 
into  the  trunk  and  began  to  prepare  for  bed. 
Once  he  glanced  about  the  cold,  bare  room, 
his  eyes,  heavy  with  sleep,  fastened  upon  the 
row  of  silvery  mercury  bottles,  and  the  vision 
of  a  woman's  veil,  silvery  too,  fluttered  be 
fore  him  and  the  thought  of  a  pair  of  sunny 
eyes  brought  a  momentary  smile  into  the  sad, 
handsome  face. 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"The  railroad  took  seven  hundred  and 
fifty  acres,"  sighed  Don  Dolores,  in  Spanish. 
"If  I  sell  any  more  lots,  I  shall  have  to  break 
into  the  last  tract,  the  'Tranquilina'— named 
after  your  mother,"  and  the  old  man  pointed 
slowly  toward  the  ocean  front. 

"Los  Americanos  have  their  eyes  on  this 
bluff.  They  want  a  hotel  and  a  dancing  pa 
vilion.  Where  can  we  get  the  money  to  build, 
unless  we  sell  these  lots — your  tract — Este- 
ban?"  he  mournfully  continued. 

Don  Dolores  and  Esteban  sauntered  along 
the  high  bluff  overlooking  the  Pacific. 

"And  we  must  sell  at  once.  Los  Ameri 
canos  do  not  wait,  they  want  all  in  a  hurry. 
Next  year  I  had  thought  of  building  a  danc 
ing  pavilion,  but  they  will  be  here  before  that 
time.  Already  the  electric  cars  are  running 
to  La  Tierra  Baja." 

They  had  now  reached  the  top  of  the  bluff 

and  they  paused  in  their  walk.    Don  Dorlores 

turned  and,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hands, 

gazed  off  in  the  direction  of  the  "low  lands" 

16 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

where  the  new  electric  line  terminated. 

Don  Dolores  Ybarrando  was  singularly 
handsome.  In  height  he  was  a  little  above 
the  average,  broad  shouldered,  muscular,  per 
fectly  developed  in  limb.  Over  the  long 
slanting  brows  and  about  the  well-formed 
large  ears  his  fine  hair  fell  in  silver-gray  rip 
ples;  a  scant  mustache  disclosed  full  lips  and 
a  mobile,  sensitive  mouth;  his  most  prominent 
feature  was  a  high-bred,  slightly  aquiline  nose 
with  inflated  nostrils;  the  eyes  were  very 
beautiful,  brown  in  color  and  glowing  with  a 
light,  playful  at  moments,  always  happy  and 
tranquil. 

The  father  and  son  were  very  like  one 
another,  yet  strikingly  different.  Except  for 
Esteban's  heavy,  straight,  black  hair  each  fea 
ture  had  been  duplicated.  The  likeness  was 
unusual.  But  the  light  in  Don  Dolores'  eyes 
had  been  changed  into  one  of  unutterable  sad 
ness  in  the  son's,  and  the  voice  of  the  father, 
gentle,  womanish,  had  deepened  into  tones 
strong,  sympathetic  in  Esteban.  Don  Do- 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

lores  was  more  aristocratic — something  of  an 
oriental  languor,  even  effeminacy  clung  to 
him,  to  the  slender  shapely  hands  and  to  the 
loosely  fitting  garments.  The  younger  Ybar- 
rando  was  old  beside  this  young  old  man  of 
seventy.  A  profound  sadness,  a  lofty  melan 
choly  pervaded  his  personality  and  were  be 
trayed  in  the  heavy,  dragging  walk.  An  eter 
nal  youth  radiated  from  Don  Dolores  as  he 
moved  about.  One  felt  as  he  looked  at  the 
olive  skin  and  perfect  features,  contentment, 
gladness,  an  inexplicable  sense  of  irresponsi 
bility,  as  when  one  contemplates  the  sculpture 
of  some  old  sylvan  god. 

The  original  grant  owned  by  Don  Dolores 
comprised  thirty-two  thousand  acres.  When 
he  brought  the  fair  Tranquilina  Mojica  home 
as  his  bride  to  La  Piedra  Blanca  Rancho, 
golden  grain  waved  upon  every  upland, 
myriad  sheep  wound  in  and  out  of  the  green 
canadas,  and  three  thousand  new  born  calves 
each  year  were  marked  with  the  Ybarrando 
brand. 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Nature  had  taken  on  many  moods  in  the 
evolution  of  this  vast  tract— valley  land,  roll 
ing  hills,  brushy,  broken  ridges,  and  a  long 
stretch  of  mesa  extending  seaward  to  a 
promontory.  There  was  every  variety  of 
landscape — from  the  idyllic  beauty  of  the  se 
questered  nook  where  the  adobe  stood,  to  the 
sublimity  of  the  barren,  treeless  bluff  that  rose 
in  Homeric  strength  up  out  of  the  sea  one 
hundred  and  thirty  feet.  Here  and  there  the 
baldness  of  the  headland  was  brightened  by 
blood-red  patches  of  ice-plant.  In  the  spring 
after  the  rains,  the  mustard  flaunting  its  slen 
der  stalks,  glorified  the  mesa ;  but  nine  months 
of  the  year  the  ocean  side  of  the  rancho  was 
wild,  windswept  and  desolate. 

On  the  futhermost  point  of  the  promon 
tory  a  white  speck  was  discernible,  El  Socor- 
ro,  a  coast  light. 

Here,  alone  with  his  charts,  marine  al 
manacs  and  eight  thousand  dollar  lamp,  lived 
Captain  Safford,  a  typical  New  England  sea 
captain,  a  man  of  large  experience,  intelli- 
19 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

gence,  and  wide  reading. 

Don  Dolores  and  the  keeper  were  inti 
mates.  Under  the  training  of  Safford  the 
Californian  had  learned  to  speak  a  perfect 
English.  When  Esteban  was  but  a  boy,  every 
day  he  was  driven  by  his  father  to  El  Socorro 
to  be  taught  by  this  master  in  English.  Un 
til  he  was  sixteen  Esteban's  tutor  was  the  old 
Vermonter.  The  ranch-house  was  six  miles 
distant  from  the  lighthouse,  tucked  away  in 
a  fold  of  the  hills,  warm,  protected  and  shady. 
Day  after  day,  when  the  mustard  was  abloom, 
and  later,  when  the  hills  were  bare,  and  the 
ground-squirrels  and  buzzards  tenanted  the 
mesa,  the  silent  lad  walked  alone  to  El 
Socorro. 

Esteban  liked  best  the  sea  side  of  the 
rancho.  He  liked  to  come  suddenly  upon  the 
ocean.  The  sensation  of  discovery  when  for 
the  first  time  he  emerged  from  the  Canada 
clung  to  him  throughout  his  life.  The  ranch- 
house  in  its  deep  basin  was  his  cradle;  his 
first  feeling  of  freedom,  of  escape  from  his 

20 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

mother's  arms  came  to  him  when  he  stood 
overlooking  the  barren  headland  at  El  Socor- 
ro.  It  was  all  so  different  from  the  sunny 
slopes  and  fruit  orchards  about  the  ranch- 
house.  From  the  long  verandas  he  had  no 
vista  of  the  sapphire  sea  and  the  mountain- 
islands  gleaming  like  faerie  fastnesses  in  mid- 
ocean.  This  first  intimation  was  ineffaceable. 
Looking  out  over  the  infinitude  of  water,  the 
childhood  of  Esteban  passed  into  youth  — in 
dividuality  was  born. 

Today,  father  and  son,  standing  together, 
gazing  silently  seaward,  had  an  overwhelm 
ing  sense  of  change,  loss,  poverty  in  the  fu 
ture. 

And  it  had  all  come  about  most  inevitably. 
If  Don  Dorlores  could  have  told  his  story 
consecutively,  the  events  would  have  followed 
as  naturally  as  the  episodes  in  a  Greek  trag 
edy.  There  had  been  no  disregard  of  unity; 
an  inexorable  fate  in  the  form  of  American 
aggressiveness  had  shifted  the  scenes,  evolved 
the  catastrophe. 

21 


CHAPTER  II 

AMONG   the   seven   hundred   stu 
dents    who    thronged    the    long 
corridors  of  College  Hall,  there 
was  not  one  more  restive  than 
young  Ruth  Hastings.     If  the 
place  had  been  less  beautiful,   Ruth's  fresh 
man  year  would  probably  have  been  her  last 
one;  but  a  sunset  row  on  the  lake,  or  a  half 
hour  alone  on  the  hillside  under  the   great 
white   pines,   listening   with   ear   against   the 
trunks  to  the  slow  sea  music  of  the  branches, 
always  counterbalanced  for  her  the  weariness 
that  was  sure  to  follow  a  day  of  recitations 

At  best  the  freshman  and  sophomore  years 
in  college  are  a  "grind".  Ruth  had  not  sprung 
from  a  race  of  college  women.  Boston  born 
and  bred  though  she  was,  it  would  take  more 
than  three  or  four  generations  to  tame  and 
circumscribe  the  spirit  of  the  great-grand 
daughter  of  a  Cape  Cod  sea  captain. 
22 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Hardihood,  generosity,  humor,  and  a 
stern  sense  of  duty  had  characterized  old 
Bartholomew  Lovewell,  who  lost  his  life  in 
an  heroic  effort  to  save  a  sinking  crew  off 
Truro  Light  A  small  water-color  of  this 
brave  man— young  and  of  handsome  features, 
a  bright  blue  jacket  contrasting  with  the  au 
burn  curls  and  frank  hazel  eyes,  hung  over 
the  table  in  Ruth's  study-room  in  College 
Hall  This  happy,  healthy  youth  was  her 
great-grandfather.  Her  great-grandmother 
had  been  a  Provincetown  belle 

A  look  at  her  bonnie  forefather's  picture 
always  made  Ruth  unusually  restless,  a  glance 
at  the  wind  swept  curls  and  bronze  cheeks, 
filled  her  with  longings  for  broad  waters  and 
free  spaces;  sometimes  when  the  autumn  rains 
lashed  her  windows,  the  story  of  the  Novem 
ber  gale  and  the  sinking  crew  would  come 
vividly  before  her,  and  the  text  books  would 
lie  unopened,  while  the  girl  sat  looking  earn 
estly  at  her  grandfather's  face,  fancying  her 
self  by  his  side  helping,  saving  too. 

23 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Early  in  her  junior  year  Ruth  created  a 
stir  in  the  psychology  club  by  reading  an 
analysis  of  Browning's  poems  She  declared 
his  philosophy  to  be  truer  and  greater  than 
that  of  his  predecessors  because  of  the  im 
portant  place  given  to  love  in  his  theory  of 
human  existence.  As  the  meeting  closed  and 
the  students  wended  their  way  in  the  moon 
light  down  the  long  avenue  of  elms,  heated 
discussion  of  the  paper  was  carried  on.  Some 
of  the  more  clever  young  women  were  certain 
that  intellect  played  the  larger  part  in  the 
poet's  interpretation  of  life  and  they  accused 
Ruth  of  sentimentality. 

Ruth  herself  was  one  of  the  last  to  come 
from  the  dark  into  the  open  meadows  by  the 
lake.  She  walked  slowly  by  the  side  of  a 
young  woman  noticeably  tall  and  with  a  face 
large-featured,  baffling  like  one  of  Michael 
Angelo's  Sibyls. 

"So  you  think  that  I  was  too  extreme,  Ju 
dith?"  said  Ruth  clinging  closely  to  her  com 
panion's  arm.  "Well,  I  meant  to  be.  There 
24 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

is  nothing  I  abhor  more  than  the  type  of  in- 
tellectualized  woman." 

"But,  Ruth,  there  is  always  a  danger  in 
over  estimating  the  value  of  emotion,"  pro 
tested  Judith.  "And  when  one  takes  the  ex 
treme  position  that  you  did  tonight,  one's 
argument  loses  rather  than  gains  in  force. 
Kant  says",  slowly  continued  the  young  wo 
man,  "that  Goodness  is  the  one  only  test  for 
human  experience.  Love  makes  life  too  self 
ish,  too  personal.  There  is  a  higher  test  than 
Love — Duty." 

"But  Love  is  Duty— the  highest  Duty," 
quickly  interrupted  Ruth.  "It  is  just  this 
point  that  Browning  so  repeatedly  empha 
sizes,  and  for  this  reason  he  seems  to  me  to 
be  more  powerful  than  any  other  name  in 
modern  literature." 

"Perhaps  he  is  right.  But  Love  often 
brings  great  sorrow,  great  pain.  Man  is  un 
able  to  make  it  his  Absolute,  Goodness  must 
be  man's  ultimate  aim — that  alone  can  bring 
him  happiness  or  better,  peace,"  replied  Ju- 
25 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

dith  in  a  calm  tone. 

"What  a  superb  starlight  night  this  is!  I 
don't  want  to  go  in  Judith,"  broke  in  Ruth. 
Come  to  my  room  and  have  a  lunch  before 
you  go  digging  at  the  Greek." 

"I  mustn't  dear,  I  have  three  pages  yet  in 
the  'Phaedo',  and  it  is  now  after  nine,"  and 
Judith  glanced  reluctantly  toward  the  tall 
clock  as  she  and  Ruth  entered  Meadow 
House. 

"Good  night,"  and  she  took  Ruth's  small 
hand  in  her  large,  cool  palm,  looking  stead 
fastly  from  her  fine,  gray  eyes  into  the  girl's 
face.  A  glance  from  Judith's  eyes  meant 
more  than  mere  words.  Tonight  the  glance 
was  very  sympathetic. 

Judith  Wilkinson,  the  brilliant  Greek  stu 
dent  and  tutor  in  the  Philosophy  department 
was  a  poor  missionary's  daughter;  she  had  a 
scholarship  and  twelve  dollars  a  year  to  live 
upon,  until  they  would  take  her  into  the 
faculty. 

Since  their  freshman  year  Ruth  Hastings 
26  ' 


and  Judith  had  been  great  friends.  Judith 
the  elder  by  three  years,  the  more  developed 
by  ten,  loved  the  winsome  child-girl,  tossed 
like  a  flower  into  the  maelstrom  of  college 
life.  In  the  rush  and  whirl  of  the  life,  Ruth 
had  found  the  quietude  and  poise  of  the  elder 
woman  a  haven;  while  the  brightness  of 
Ruth  had  woven  itself  like  a  streak  of  shot 
silk  through  the  homespun  warp  of  Judith's 
routine.  The  strong  strain  of  idealism  in 
both  had  cemented  this  friendship.  Ruth 
revelled  in  Judith's  transcendentalism;  while 
but  partially  understanding  much  of  it,  the 
essence  she  always  caught  Judith  recog 
nized  in  Ruth  a  character  made  to  live  the 
ideal.  The  girl's  originality  and  audacity  in 
saying  and  doing  what  Judith  only  reached 
in  thought  constantly  surprised  and  fascin 
ated  the  maturer  woman. 

This  evening  Ruth  had  been  more  daring 

than  usual. 

******** 

College    Float    Day    Ruth    met    Gerald 
27 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Woodbridge  for  the  first  time.  It  was  an 
immediate  recognition  on  his  part.  Ruth  re 
ceived  his  unaffected  overtures  a  little 
shrinkingly,  at  the  same  time  being  instantly 
attracted  by  his  physical  charm. 

All  that  scientific  athletics  could  do  to  de 
velop  the  masculine  form  they  had  done  for 
Woodbridge.  If  there  had  been  any  awk 
wardness  in  adolescence,  not  a  hint  remained 
in  the  well-proportioned,  closely  knit  figure. 
Added  to  this  perfection  of  physique,  was  a 
dignified  carriage,  a  certain  blandness  of 
manner  which  particularly  led  women  to  like 
him,  often  mistaking  this  blandness  for 
sympathy.  Of  sympathy  there  was  not  an 
iota  in  the  man's  nature.  Light-haired,  hand 
some,  suave,  with  a  smooth,  clean-shaven 
face,  an  adamantine  chin  and  a  clear,  cold 
blue  eye,  this  young  Harvard  man  as  he 
strode  across  the  campus,  possessed  no  out 
ward  characteristic  that  greatly  differentiated 
him  from  a  hundred  other  men.  One  had 
to  know  Woodbridge  to  discover  that  he  ex- 
28 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

celled  most  men  in  a  superlative  egotism. 

During  her  college  career,  Ruth  saw  too 
little  of  her  determined  lover  to  find  reason 
to  dismiss  him.  From  the  outset  he  appro 
priated  her.  She  had  been  created  for  him. 
Her  personal  charm,  her  mentality,  nay  her 
soul,  were  his  by  a  divine  fiat.  In  these  dec 
larations  of  Woodbridge  there  was  no  aban 
don.  He  never  lost  himself.  If  Woodbridge 
had  disclosed  the  fervour,  the  passion  of  the 
ordinary  lover,  Ruth  might  have  stopped  to 
question  the  validity  of  his  assurance.  His 
was  an  esoteric  devotion,  its  profundity  dis 
armed  her.  To  her  inexperienced  heart  it 
seemed  a  beautiful  and  ideal  thing  that  she 
should  be  chosen  as  an  essential  element  in 
the  development  of  this  strong,  self-contained 
man.  For  the  time  being  she  permitted  her 
self  to  be  extinguished  by  his  self-assertive- 


ness. 

*          * 


Seven  years  had  passed  since  the  meeting 
of  Ruth  and  Gerald  Woodbridge  on  Float 
29 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Day.  One  morning  in  November,  Ruth 
hurried  down  the  winding  staircase  of  one 
of  the  small  hotels  in  the  environs  of  Los 
Angeles.  Her  arms  were  filled  with  books 
and  magazines  and  her  slender  shoulders 
were  burdened  with  a  Navajo  blanket,  whose 
vivid  colors  were  a  poor  back  ground  for  the 
girl's  tired,  pale  face. 

"At  last  I'm  coming,  Carolyn,"  she  called, 
pushin^  her  way  through  the  screen  doors 
and  depositing  the  heavy  blanket  on  the  end 
of  the  Calcutta  chair  where  her  sister  lay 
basking  in  the  sun. 

"Oh,  don't  put  that  blanket  over  me  now," 
querulously  said  the  invalid,  without  glancing 
up  from  the  "Vegetarian  Magazine"  in 
which  she  was  absorbed. 

After  placing  a  small  stand  upon  which 
were  a  bottle  of  smelling  salts,  a  paper  knife 
and  various  trifles  close  to  her  sister's  chair, 
Ruth  walked  away  and  sat  down  near  a  mid 
dle-aged  gentleman  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
broad,  sunlit  piazza. 

30 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE! 

"Good  morning,  Miss  Ruth,"  he  said, 
drawing  up  his  chair  to  hers. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Rodman,  I  hope 
you  slept  better  last  night,"  responded  Ruth. 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,  I  did,"  nervously 
replied  Mr.  Eben  Rodman,  between  asthma 
tic  gasps.  "How  is  Miss  Hastings?  I  trust 
that  she  is  more  comfortable  this  morning, 
that  she  rested  well." 

"Carolyn  always  sleeps  pretty  well,  she 
never  coughs  at  night.  The  Doctor  says  that 
it  is  simply  nervous  exhaustion,  that  there  is 
no  pulmonary  trouble  as  we  at  first  feared," 
said  Ruth. 

"I  don't  know  how  this  climate  agrees 
with  nervous  invalids.  I  don't  know  whether 
any  climate  agrees  with  them,"  dubiously  re 
marked  Rodman,  glancing  timidly  over  the 
rim  of  his  eye  glasses  in  the  direction  of  Miss 
Carolyn. 

"By  the  way,  I  saw  young  Woodbridge 
here  yesterday.  A  friend,  eh?  I've  always 
known  the  Woodbridges.  A  good  Boston 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

family  for  at  least  three  generations,  perhaps 
longer.  This  young  man  bears  his  father's 
name— Gerald  Woodbridge,  but  he  resembles 
his  mother.  She  is  a  splendid  looking  wo 
man.  A  queen  in  evening  dress,  and  brilliant 
enough  to  be  the  leader  of  a  salon.  Wood- 
bridge's  father  was  always  a  queer  chap.  At 
Harvard  we  lived  in  the  same  hall.  I  re 
call  how  the  fellows  made  fun  of  Wood- 
bridge  for  taking  himself  so  seriously;  later 
he  developed  an  insufferable  conceit  that 
made  him  most  unpopular." 

As  he  drifted  on  in  his  meandering 
monologue  Rodman  had  forgotten  his  lis 
tener.  Now,  something  in  the  girl's  face,  a 
look  of  earnestness,  the  return  of  color  to  her 
cheeks,  interrupted  him,  his  curiosity  aroused, 
he  continued,  "Woodbridge  was  always 
clever  enough  to  me,  and  I  was  glad  to  meet 
his  son.  He  is  a  fine  looking  fellow.  Have 
you  known  him  long?" 

"Yes,  we  live  near  the  Woodbridges  on 
Beacon  Hill.  I  know  Mr.  Woodbridge  very 
32 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

well,"  meaningly  replied  Ruth. 

"He  can't  be  in  Southern  California  on 
account  of  his  health?"  queried  Rodman, 
half  apologetic. 

"No,  he  is  here  for  business  reasons  only. 
Mr.  Woodbridge  is  superintendent  of  La 
Merced  Chemical  Works.  But  this  seems  to 
be  almost  a  minor  interest.  He  is  absorbed 
in  countless  things — the  oil  development,  the 
new  electric  systems  and  especially  in  copper 
Mines  in  Mexico." 

As  Ruth  Hastings  sat  by  Rodman,  her 
nervous  little  hands  clasped  across  her  knees, 
her  head  thrown  back  in  eager  speech,  the 
passerby  turned  to  look  a  second  time  into 
the  bright,  up-lifted  face  and  to  admire  the 
coils  of  golden  hair  that  adorned  the  broad, 
shapely  head,  falling  in  soft  abundance  about 
the  brows.  It  was  very  golden  in  the  sun 
shine  and  set  the  seal  of  distinction  upon  its 
owner.  The  face  itself  was  neither  beauti 
ful  nor  pretty.  But  it  was  not  a  plain  face. 
There  was  nobility  in  the  outlines  of  the 

33 


cheeks  and  chin,  symmetry  in  the  nose  and 
the  mouth  was  striking.  It  was  the  mouth 
of  a  poet — broad,  sensuous  lips  with  a  hint 
of  melancholy  in  the  droop  of  the  strong 
chin.  The  eyes,  a  grayish  brown,  were  seri 
ous,  except  when  she  spoke,  then  they  over 
flowed  with  light.  Her  figure  was  that  of  a 
girl,  short  and  immature,  though  her  waist 
was  slender  and  long.  The  girlishness  was 
accentuated  by  the  dress  she  wore  which  was 
a  well  fitting  golf  skirt  and  a  brown  Norfolk 
jacket.  This  youthfulness  was  not  wholly 
external.  Both  her  manner  and  voice  were 
those  of  a  person  much  younger  than  she 
really  was.  A  certain  unconsciousness  of 
movement,  an  impulsive  ring  in  her  tones 
heightened  the  impression.  It  was  not  merely 
innocence,  it  was  ingenuousness,  the  frank 
ness  of  the  old  New  England  sea  captain. 
One  felt  the  presence  of  a  womanly  girl, 
rather  than  that  of  a  mature  woman  of  twen 
ty-five. 

"It's  remarkable  the  way  these  Mexicans 
34 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

sit  a  horse,"  suddenly  exclaimed  Rodman, 
rising  from  his  seat  and  directing  Ruth's  at 
tention  down  the  long  driveway. 

Curveting  to  and  fro  between  the  glancing, 
green  pepper  branches,  came  a  splendid  black 
horse  ridden  by  a  Mexican  in  tan  corduroy 
and  sombrero.  As  he  approached  and  dis 
mounted  Ruth  recognized  in  the  hand 
some  caballero,  the  tired  Mexican  whom  she 
had  frequently  seen  at  the  Chemical  Works. 

"A  note  from  Mr.  Woodbridge,"  said 
Ybarrando,  quietly  bowing  and  handing  Ruth 
an  envelope. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  the  young 
woman,  standing  on  the  broad  steps  and  look 
ing  down  at  him  for  a  moment.  "This  is 
Senor  Ybarrando,  whom  I  met  the  other 
day?"  she  asked  giving  him  one  of  her  can 
did  glances  as  she  led  Ybarrando  to  a  shady 
seat  on  the  piazza. 

"Will  you  sit  here  and  rest  for  a  few  mo 
ments  while  I  write  an  answer?"  she  said 
turning  and  pointing  out  a  comfortable  chair, 

35 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

then  walking  quickly  away. 

Ybarrando  did  not  speak,  but  sat  down, 
following  her  vanishing  figure  with  eyes  full 
of  regard. 

"Carolyn,  Gerald  has  just  sent  me  a  note. 
I'm  going  upstairs  to  answer  it,"  said  Ruth  as 
she  returned  to  her  sister.  She  started  away, 
then,  abruptly  coming  back,  "Carolyn,  Senor 
Ybarrando  brought  the  note,  you  remember 
the  Mexican  you  met  at  the  Chemical 
Works?"  she  explained.  "Perhaps  you 
would  talk  to  him  while  I  am  gone,  look  at 
his  sombrero  and— he  is  very  handsome,  pic 
turesque,  different  from  the  ordinary  person 
—he  might  interest  you,  dear." 

Carolyn  roused  herself  a  little,  "Yes,  I'm 
tired  of  reading,  you  may  bring  him,  any 
thing  to  entertain  me,"  and  as  Ruth  moved 
away,  the  invalid  smoothed  out  her  shawls 
and  adjusted  her  pillows. 

While  Ruth  was  gone,  Carolyn  arranged  to 
have  Ybarrando  get  her  some  new  walnuts 
and  fresh  honey.  "Honey  comes  under  the 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

list  of  'natural  sweets',"  Ruth  heard  her 
saying  as  she  approached. 

"I  hope  that  I  have  not  kept  you  waiting 
a  great  while,"  said  Ruth,  handing  Ybar- 
rando  the  note.  He  had  risen,  offering  her 
his  chair  as  she  came  up. 

"Not  at  all,  Senorita,  but  I  must  go  at 
once,"  he  bade  Miss  Carolyn  good  morning, 
and  he  and  Ruth  walked  down  the  long 
piazza  together. 

"Prieto  is  a  superb  animal,  I  always  feel 
in  awe  of  him,"  Ruth  stood  on  the  steps 
watching  Ybarrando  unfasten  the  bridle,  the 
horse  kept  rubbing  his  nose  up  and  down 
Esteban's  sleeve.  "He  is  evidently  fond  of 
you  Senor  Ybarrando." 

"Horses  always  know  when  any  one  under 
stands  them,"  and  smoothing  the  shapely 
neck,  Ybarrando  sprang  easily  into  the  sad 
dle.  Then  he  cast  a  lingering  look  at  her 
and  rode  rapidly  away. 

For  the  first  time,  Ruth  was  struck  by  the 
unfathomable  sadness  in  Esteban's  dark 

37 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

eyes. 

"Ruth,  I'm  going  to  follow  explicitly  this 
vegetarian  diet,"  said  Carolyn  picking  up  her 
magazine  and  feeling  the  pages  between  her 
slim  fingers.  "It  includes  nuts,  nuts  to  take 
the  place  of  meats  and  'natural  sweets'.  Just 
what  is  meant  by  'natural  sweets,'  I'm  not 
sure.  But  I'm  certain  there'll  be  no  risk  in 
having  some  fresh  honey.  That  Mexican 
promised  to  fetch  some  from  a  ranch  to  the 
office.  Of  course  Gerald  can  bring  it  over  to 
me." 

"He  can't,  Carolyn  dear,  Gerald  leaves 
for  Mexico  today  on  the  noon  train,"  said 
Ruth. 

"Then  how  shall  I  get  it  on  Thursday? 
And  the  new  walnuts  too?  The  Mexican 
said  they  were  perfect  now."  There  was  a 
look  of  distress  in  Miss  Hasting's  face,  but 
it  was  suddenly  changed  into  one  of  indig 
nation. 

"Gerald  Woodbridge  going  to  Mexico!" 
she  exclaimed.  "Ruth  Hastings  I  don't  un- 
38 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

derstand  him  at  all.  You  have  seen  him  but 
a  half-dozen  times  since  we  came,  and  after 
a  separation  of  three  years  it  5s"- 

The  pained  look  in  Ruth's  face  forbade 
her  to  go  further.  Ruth  moved  silently 
away,  disappearing  in  the  garden.  As  the 
sun  had  travelled  to  the  other  side  of  the 
piazza,  Carolyn  drew  the  blanket  over  her 
and  burying  herself  in  the  pillows  murmured, 
"Perhaps  the  Mexican  will  bring  them  over. 
He  seemed  willing  and  so  polite." 


39 


CHAPTER  III 

GERALD    WOODBRIDGE    was 
a  type.     An  embodiment  of  the 
business  cult.     As  a  family  the 
Woodbridges   represented  Yan 
kee  wealth,  not  Boston  culture. 
For  three  generations  the  Lowell  mills  had 
fathered  them.     The  employes  in  these  same 
factories   used   the   Woodbridge   name   as   a 
synonym    of    parsimony    and    close    dealing. 
"Work   for  work's  sake"   was  the  saturnine 
motto    that    greeted    the    factory   boy    as    he 
glanced  through  the  dingy  office  windows  on 
his  way  to  the  work  room. 

Shortly  after  his  graduation  from  Harv 
ard,  Gerald  Woodbridge's  father  died,  hav 
ing  bequeathed  to  his  son  a  large  bank  ac 
count  and  a  fever  of  work.  Three  weeks 
later,  the  bank  in  which  his  money  had  been 
deposited  failed.  Before  his  death  he  had 
sold  out  his  interest  in  the  mills  to  an  elder 
40 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

brother.  Young  Woodbridge  and  his  mother 
found  their  resources  curtailed;  there  was 
nothing  left  but  a  town  house  and  some  min 
ing  interests  in  California.  To  look  after  the 
latter  Woodbridge  had  come  West. 

Woodbridge  was  without  sentiment.  The 
struggle  to  gain  position,  to  make  a  name  for 
himself,  which  in  this  new  country  meant  get 
ting  rich,  had  in  no  way  increased  the  natural 
deficit  in  his  nature.  Self-centered,  ambiti 
ous,  Woodbridge  had  in  the  three  years  of 
western  life  developed  into  a  reticent,  cal 
culating  man  of  affairs.  The  acquisition  of 
wealth,  mere  wealth  as  an  end  in  itself,  was 
his  life-incentive.  Some  day  when  the  way 
was  perfectly  clear,  he  meant  to  realize  a 
dream  in  which  Ruth  Hastings  would  figure 
conspicuously.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  ma 
trimony  was  a  secondary  consideration;  dur 
ing  his  absence  from  home,  his  engagement 
had  become  a  vague  obligation — something 
that  he  thought  of  when  he  perused  his  Sun 
day  paper.  Love  was  a  mere  accessory  in  his 
41 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

existence. 

Meanwhile  Ruth  withheld  her  heart  from 
more  desirable  suitors,  and  lived  on  brief, 
weekly  epistles  from  her  luke  warm  lover. 
When  the  sudden  break  in  her  sister's  health 
led  the  physicians  to  order  them  south,  it  was 
with  a  wild  elation  that  Ruth  chose  California 
before  Florida  and  the  Bermudas. 

The  knowledge  of  her  coming  was  re 
ceived  by  Woodbridge  with  surprise.  Her 
arrival  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  for  Son- 
ora  produced  in  him  a  state  of  feeling  that, 
if  carefully  analyzed,  would  have  proven  to 
be  scarcely  that  of  an  old  lover. 

The  Jesus  Maria  Copper  Smelting  and  Re 
fining  Company  belonging  to  the  same  capital 
ists  who  owned  La  Merced  Chemical  Works, 
had  given  Woodbridge  full  control  of  the 
erection  of  the  new  smelter  at  Gabriela,  Son- 
ora.  The  Company  had  received  an  ultima 
tum  from  the  State  authorities  that  the 
smelter  must  be  in  actual  operation  by  a  cer 
tain  date  or  it  must  forfeit  its  concession.  The 
42 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

concession  was  valuable.  It  relieved  the 
Company  of  paying  taxes  and  the  four  per 
cent.  State  tax  on  all  its  business.  A  heavy 
cash  bond  was  given  by  the  Company  as  a 
surety  of  its  good  faith.  There  was  still  an 
enormous  amount  of  work  to  be  done  on  the 
plant  and  Woodbridge  knew  of  the  great  dif 
ficulties  to  be  experienced  in  getting  the  large 
eighty  horse-power  boiler  into  the  camp. 

Woodbridge  never  altered  a  plan  once  de 
termined  upon,  a  business  proposition  de 
cided,  he  was  immovable;  moreover,  he  was 
vain  of  the  Company's  having  given  him  the 
present  responsibility  and  ambitious  to  profit 
therefrom;  the  unlocked  for  arrival  of  Ruth 
had  already  detained  him.  In  the  light  of  all 
this,  his  abrupt  departure  a  week  before  the 
Thanksgiving  holiday  was  duly  palliated  by 
Woodbridge. 

Ybarrando  always  lunched  with  Wood- 
bridge  at  Griffith's  ranch,  once  El  Famosa 
winery.  Hither  he  came  with  Ruth's  note. 
Between  hasty  bites  Woodbridge  read  it.  In 

43 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

a  half-hour  the  train  left  for  Nogales  and 
there  was  barely  time  remaining  to  reach  the 
station.  Ybarrando  hurried  also,  following 
on  his  bicycle  behind  the  swift-footed  Prieto. 

"I'm  awfully  obliged  to  you,  Ybarrando, 
for  taking  that  note  to  Miss  Hastings,"  said 
Woodbridge,  tying  his  horse  and  going  to 
ward  the  ticket  window.  "I  guess  the  express 
is  a  little  late,"  and  glancing  at  the  coupon  on 
his  ticket,  he  walked  restlessly  to  and  fro  on 
the  platform. 

He  was  taller,  more  erect  than  his  com 
panion,  and  as  he  turned  to  address  him  di 
rectly  he  seemed  to  incline  his  whole  body 
and  his  manner  was  patronizing.  "I  dis 
liked  asking  you  to  do  it.  Running  errands 
isn't  exactly  in  your  line,"  he  went  on.  "But 
the  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  I  can't  trust 
that  fellow  Rivera  to  get  anywhere  on  time, 
he's  so  everlastingly  slow,  and  I  wanted  a 
reply  from  Miss  Hastings  before  I  left." 

Ybarrando's  measured  walk  adapted  itself 
to  the  American's  nervous  stride,  but  his 
44 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

tones  were  finely  modulated  in  contrast  with 
the  hardness  of  Woodbridge's  voice. 

"Don't  mention  it,  I  am  at  your  service, 
Mr.  Woodbridge.  Is  there  anything  fur 
ther?" 

"No,  I  can't  think  of  anything.  I've  left 
the  office  in  your  care.  In  my  note  I  told 
Miss  Hastings  that  you  would  be  able  to  give 
her  better  than  anyone  else,  the  directions  she 
might  want  about  the  best  roads  to  take  in 
getting  over  to  the  Mission,  or  out  to  Los 
Robles  Canon.  We  had  planned  to  spend 
Thanksgiving  Day  at  El  Molino." 

Ybarrando's  face  changed,  an  eager  light 
stole  into  his  eyes,  as  Woodbridge  finished 
and  walked  over  to  scrutinize  his  horse's 
legs. 

"Look  after  Prieto,  ride  him  a  little  every 
day  or  so.  It  might  be  a  good  idea  to  go 
with  them  on  Thanksgiving  to  El  Molino. 
Miss  Hastings  will  drive  her  sister.  You 
might  show  them  the  way.  I  think  you  could 
make  it  in  an  afternoon."  The  whistle  of 

45 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

the  train  interrupted  him.  "Well,  I'm  off. 
I'll  try  to  get  back  in  three  weeks.  Don't 
forget  to  have  that  car  of  sulphur  side 
tracked.  Adios,  adios,"  and  as  Woodbridge 
mounted  the  platform,  he  gave  Ybarrando 
one  of  his  ingratiating  smiles,  which  Ybar 
rando  returned  with  a  sombre  inclination  of 
the  head. 

After  this  unceremonious  manner,  Este- 
ban  Ybarrando  was  made  guide  to  Miss 
Hastings  during  the  absence  of  Wood- 
bridge. 

The  short  autumn  days,  some  of  them 
warm  as  midsummer,  went  hastily  by. 
Scarcely  one  of  them  passed  without  finding 
a  messenger,  or  oftener  Ybarrando  himself 
at  Los  Pinos  to  make  inquiry  if  the  ladies 
were  well  or  had  any  commissions. 

Thanksgiving  Day— a  memorable  one  to 
Esteban— dawned  warm  as  August.  By  ten 
o'clock  they  were  on  the  way  to  El  Molino. 

"We  should  have  been  hopelessly  lost 
without  you,"  called  Ruth  from  the  phaeton 
46 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

to  Ybarrando  who  rode  a  little  in  front  of 
them. 

"It  is  difficult  to  find  if  one  doesn't  know, 
but  my  uncle  once  owned  a  ranch  in  this  vi 
cinity—I've  ridden  over  it  all."  He  pointed 
below  them,  where  for  miles  and  miles  the 
land  stretched  away  in  darkly-gleaming 
orange  groves  and  silvery  walnut  orchards. 
They  had  stopped  on  an  oak-crowned  hill, 
from  which  there  was  an  expansive  outlook 
—a  picture  of  unsurpassing  beauty.  Off  in 
the  distance  rose  the  white  peaks  of  San  An 
tonio  and  San  Bernardino;  beyond  and  yet 
beyond,  loomed  the  uncertain  summits  of  far 
ther  ranges,  and  near  by,  close  enough  to 
exalt  and  overpower,  stood  in  massive  grand 
eur  the  amethystine  wall  of  the  Sierra  Madre. 

"Now  we  are  just  above  El  Molino,  the 
lake  always  tells  me,"  and  Esteban  pointed 
to  what  was  an  anomaly  in  a  Southern 
California  landscape — a  sedgy  bit  of  water 
lying  directly  under  their  eyes. 

In  a  few  moments  they  went  down  to  the 
47 


old  building  itself.  It  was  a  long,  white 
house,  half-dwelling,  half-mill.  The  walls 
of  masonry  were  well  preserved  and  the  but 
tresses  supporting  the  corners  would  endure 
for  years  to  come— buttresses  that  were  no 
architectural  conceit;  but  put  there  for  a  de 
fense  against  the  enemy.  On  the  east  side 
were  two  arched  openings,  where  the  water 
wheel  once  turned  and  the  upper  story  boasted 
several  tiny  casement  windows  and  a  little 
balcony.  Silent,  deserted,  suggestive,  the 
rambling  structure  stood.  Tufts  of  grass 
and  tall  weeds  sprang  here  and  there  from 
the  roof,  clambering  rose  vines  encircled  the 
buttresses  and  a  venerable  black  walnut  tree 
overshadowed  the  walls.  The  earth  had 
claimed  El  Molino  for  her  own. 

They  stood  long  before  the  old  building. 
Esteban  enlivened  their  interest  by  telling 
quaint  scraps  of  romance  connected  with  the 
past  of  El  Molino.  He  spoke  excellent 
English,  and  had  a  picturesque  way  of  re 
calling  the  stories  he  had  known  from  boy- 
48 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

hood. 

"It  was  built  for  one  of  the  Mission  fath 
ers  in  connection  with  the  San  Gabriel  Mis 
sion —  'The  first  grist  mill  in  California,'  ' 
read  Miss  Carolyn  from  a  small  guide  book 
in  her  hand.  "Very  ingenious,  a  sort  of  fort 
ress  and  work  shop  together.  But  was  there 
really  any  danger  from  the  Indians"  she  went 
on,  not  observing  the  scornful  look  that 
Ybarrando  cast  at  her  source  of  information. 

"Yes,  Senorita,  of  course,  the  padres  were 
.ilways  open  to  attacks  from  the  unconverted 
Indians.  El  Molino  was  built  with  a  view 
to  protecting  the  inmates;  and  one  still  finds 
;i  trace  of  the  tuna  hedges  that  were  planted 
to  keep  out  the  enemy. 

"Tuna  hedges!  what  are  they?  It  doesn't 
say  a  word  about  anything  of  the  kind,"  said 
Miss  Carolyn  again  consulting  her  book. 

Esteban  smiled.  "They  are  a  sort  of 
prickly  pear  cactus,  nothing  better  could  be 
used  for  warding  oft"  an  invader." 

"One  wouldn't  suppose  harm  could  come 
49 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

to  any  living  thing  in  so  peaceful  a  spot." 
Ruth  walked  in  from  the  balcony  where  she 
had  been  standing.  "That  picture  will  go 
with  me  for  months  to  come.  Quietude !  the 
quietude  of  centuries  broods  over  the  spot!" 
she  murmured  wistfully. 

They  sauntered  on,  sitting  down  to  lunch 
eon  under  the  oleanders.  Ybarrando  swung 
a  hammock  between  the  tall  cypresses,  and 
Carolyn,  who  was  fatigued  and  somewhat 
bored  by  Ybarrando,  lay  down  in  the  warm 
sunshine,  while  Ruth  and  Esteban  continued 
wandering  over  the  old  place. 

"Underneath  those  buttresses  there  used 
to  be  a  delicious  spring;  only  last  year  they 
ruthlessly  cut  down  the  other  pine — there  were 
always  two,"  explained  Esteban  pointing  to  a 
vacant  space  in  the  garden.  "They  were 
planted  by  a  Spanish  girl  and  her  lover.  One 
night  they  rode  up  to  the  door  of  El  Molino, 
and  after  receiving  refreshment  from  the 
holy  padres,  started  on  their  journey  but  not 
until  they  had  planted  two  pine  trees  one  on 
50 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

either  side  of  El  Molino.  You  see  there  is 
but  one  tree  left." 

Esteban  had  led  Ruth  to  a  seat  on  the  west 
wall  above  the  cisterns.  Neither  spoke  for 
a  little  while. 

"California  is  the  most  fascinating  place  in 
America,  Senor  Ybarrando!"  at  last  Ruth 
exclaimed.  "I  felt  it  the  moment  that  I  first 
set  eyes  upon  the  great  lonely  mountains  with 
their  superb  lights  and  noble  outlines.  And 
what  could  be  more  mysterious  than  your 
desert  with  its  weirdly  sounding  name  Mo- 
jave." 

As  she  spoke  Esteban's  face  shone,  and  he 
came  and  sat  down  on  the  old  wall  beside 
her.  "Si,  si,  Senorita,  the  desert  no  man  can 
understand.  It  is  the  great  Mystery,  one 
must  respect  the  desert,"  he  uttered  the  last 
words  with  an  oracular  dignity. 

"Yes,  it  compels  a  silent  worship,  like  the 
sea,"  continued  Ruth,  catching  his  mood. 

"You  like  the  sea?"  he  queried  eagerly. 

"Very  much,  more  than  anything  on  earth, 

51 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

My  people  lived  on  it;  I  can't  breathe  far 
away  from  it." 

Her  intensity  drew  him. 

"I  understand  perfectly  your  feeling.  I 
was  born  by  the  sea;  the  old  ranch  is  there. 
But  it's  all  beautiful,  Seiiorita,"  and  Ybar- 
rando  looked  up  appealingly  at  the  flawless 
sky. 

"Yes,  it's  perfect,"  said  Ruth.  "It  must 
be  a  continual  joy  to  you  that  your  forebears, 
happened  to  have  been  born  in  this  land. 
You  Calif ornians  ought  to  be  a  remarkable 
people,  Senor  Ybarrando,"  and  she  sought 
his  eyes  with  a  smile. 

Ybarrando  turned  resentful,  but  disarmed 
by  her  look,  he  said,  "I  think  that  I  wouldn't 
have  been  ashamed  of  my  grandfather,  of  my 
father;  today,  we  don't  amount  to  much." 

"California  — the  country  hasn't  changed, 
what  is  the  reason  that  its  people  have?" 
asked  Ruth  thoughtfully. 

In  the  very  directness  of  her  question,  he 
fancied  a  thrust — something,  at  least — that 
52 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

sealed  his  lips. 

"There  are  many  Californians  who  still 
own  large  estates?"  persisted  Ruth. 

"Very  few  families,  T  could  count  them  on 
my  fingers— on  the  fingers  of  one  hand.  But 
it's  a  long  story,  Senorita,  one  that  could  not 
interest  you,"  he  spoke  as  if  to  dismiss  the 
subject — glancing  furtively  at  her  glowing 
cheeks  and  sunbright  hair. 

Ruth  fumbled  her  hat  ribbon. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  be  interested?  One 
ought  to  be  interested  in  the  original  people 
of  any  place;  and  the  people  that  built  the 
Missions,  and  a  picturesque  workshop  like 
this"— and  she  surveyed  El  Molino  approv 
ingly —  "Such  people,  must  have  been  worth 
while,  must  have  been  people  of  refinement, 
taste,  ideals". 

While  she  talked  she  had  almost  forgotten 
Ybarrando,  rising,  she  walked  further  and 
stood  within  the  mouldering  walls,  a  sort  of 
protecting  genius  of  the  old  ruin. 

Ybarrando  hung  on  her  words,  fascinated 

53 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

by  this  unexpected  and  graceful  protagonist 
of  his  people. 

"Carolyn  is  hunting  us,"  said  Ruth  sud 
denly,  and  she  let  Ybarrando  lead  her  down 
from  the  walls  and  they  followed  Carolyn 
who  had  gone  into  the  mill. 

The  little  party  returned  home  late  and 
tired.  But  Esteban  did  not  go  back  to  the 
adobe.  Prieto  was  given  his  supper,  and  af 
terwards  the  Mexican  rode  ferverishly  over 
the  familiar  roads,  until  he  reached  the  canon 
that  circled  round  and  about  the  foothills 
near  Los  Pinos.  On  and  on  he  went,  croon 
ing  softly  to  himself  a  little  old  song  that  his 
starry-eyed  sister  used  to  sing  when  he  was 
a  boy  at  home  : 

"Si  tu  eres  rosa, 
De   nieve   y  grana, 
Lirio  pomposa, 
Caliz  de  flor, 
Yo  sere  brisa 
De  la  mafiana, 
54 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Fresco  rocio 
Suplo  de  amor." 

Repeating  it  over  and  over,  he  at  last  came 
within  sight  of  the  house.  From  all  the  win 
dows  the  lights  were  gone.  But  a  half-hour 
later,  as  again  he  came  out  into  the  open,  a 
girlish  figure  might  have  been  seen  standing 
on  one  of  the  upper  balconies,  looking  out 
over  the  warm,  silent  valley. 

"It  is  strange  that  he  could  go  and 
Thanksgiving  so  near.  Thanksgiving  the 
most  precious  day  in  the  year  to  us  New  Eng- 
landers,  to  him  and  to  me  I"  Then  the  hot 
tears  fell  unchecked  and  Ruth  wept  bitterly. 
Startled  from  her  reverie  by  the  sharp  bark 
of  the  coyotes,  she  gathered  her  white  shawl 
about  her  and  went  slowly  in. 

4C3|(]|($4()|C)|C9|E 

At  Christmastide  Woodbridge  returned. 
January  drifted  into  February  and  the  mead 
ows  of  lupine  made  an  impressionist's  back 
ground  for  the  unsightly  Chemical  Works. 

55 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

During  Woodbridge's  absence  the  work  had 
accumulated  and  the  men  had  more  than 
they  could  do  to  meet  the  orders.  Out  be 
yond  the  sheds  a  long  line  of  empty  cars  stood 
waiting  to  be  filled  with  the  fertilizing  ma 
terial.  It  made  a  mountain  in  the  yard. 

One  morning  Woodbridge,  as  was  often 
his  habit,  came  out  to  take  a  survey  of  the 
yards.  He  stood  close  to  the  great  pile  watch 
ing  the  men  undermine  it,  when  suddenly, 
without  warning  the  heap  caved  down  inter 
ring  Woodbridge  and  an  old  Mexican. 

"Come  quick,  come  quick,  he's  buried 
alive !"  yelled  two  voices  at  Esteban's  elbow 
as  he  leaned  over  the  desk  in  the  office.  The 
superintendent's  buried  alive!" 

Throwing  off  his  coat,  Esteban  followed 
the  frantic  men.  At  once  perceiving  the  aw 
ful  situation,  with  none  to  help  him  but  the 
two  men,  the  others  having  gone  to  dinner, 
he  began  shovelling  desperately  at  the  great 
masses  of  sulphur,  at  the  same  time  directing 
the  helpless  fellows  at  work  beside  him. 
56 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Heap  after  heap  he  threw  out,  with  a  speed 
far  beyond  the  others.  Before  his  eyes,  in 
the  glare  of  the  noontide,  the  meadows  rolled 
like  purple  flame  and  far  in  the  distance, 
strangely  distinct  came  a  woman's  voice,  ur 
gent,  passionate,  putting  electric  stimulus  into 
his  stunned  brain,  and  strength  into  his 
fagged  arms.  At  last  the  two  victims  were 
pulled  out.  The  old  Mexican  was  lifeless, 
but  Woodbridge  had  only  fainted  from  a 
badly  crushed  ankle. 

Esteban,  with  the  aid  of  the  men,  bore  him 
into  the  office,  and  immediately  sent  for  a 
doctor.  The  injury  was  very  painful  and 
Esteban  ordered  a  carriage  brought  to  take 
Woodbridge  to  the  ranch-house.  As  they 
drove  along  they  passed  a  group  of  sad-eyed 
Mexicans  carrying  the  dead  Mexican  home. 
They  stopped,  took  off  their  hats  and  waited 
for  the  superintendent's  carriage  to  pass.  Es 
teban  felt  bitterly  as  he  saw  them ;  for  he  had 
no  faith  in  the  Company's  doing  anything  for 
the  widow  and  children,  and  he  knew  they 

57 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

were  hopelessly  poor. 

Ybarrando's  presence  of  mind  in  the  rescue 
of  Woodbridge  was  the  subject  of  much  talk. 
During  his  convalescence  Woodbridge  expa 
tiated  upon  the  action,  assuring  Ruth  that 
only  one  man  in  a  hundred  could  have  re 
moved  the  sulphur  with  the  rapidity  of  the 
Mexican.  Woodbridge  henceforth  had 
much  greater  confidence  in  Ybarrando,  and  a 
month  or  two  later  elevated  him  to  the  posi 
tion  of  superintendent  of  the  works  and  made 
him  his  business  manager. 

The  intercourse  between  the  two  men 
thrown  together  for  eight  hours  every  day 
was  remarkably  impersonal.  Neither  by  act 
nor  question  had  Woodbridge  ever  evinced 
the  faintest  degree  of  interest  in  Esteban's 
career.  On  one  occasion  he  came  upon  a  text 
book  on  metallurgy  belonging  to  Ybarrando. 
Glancing  at  its  contents  he  mentally  com 
mented  that  it  was  a  somewhat  advanced 
treatise  and  wondered  that  the  Mexican  had 
the  mind  to  attack  so  difficult  a  subject,  at  the 

58 


same  time  determining  on  the  first  opportun 
ity  to  send  him  down  to  the  new  mines  at  Ga- 
briela. 

During  the  three  years  that  Ybarrando  had 
been  bookkeeper,  he  had  done  the  bidding  of 
Woodbridge  mechanically— as  one  wheel  or 
piston  obeys  another — they  were  both  neces 
sary  parts  of  the  same  engine — La  Merced 
Company.  Contact  with  this  fellowman  of 
a  different  racial  development,  different  tra 
ditions  and  environment  had  left  no  impress 
upon  the  Mexican's  individuality.  There  had 
never  been  interchange  either  of  thought  or 
of  feeling.  Dumb  animals  thrown  together 
would  have  been  more  aware  of  each  other 
than  were  these  two  living  souls. 

But  after  the  accident  to  the  superintend 
ent,  Ybarrando's  feelings  toward  him  awoke. 
As  he  came  to  and  fro  from  his  bedside  with 
the  office  reports,  he  found  himself  affected, 
his  temper  roused,  by  Woodbridge's  disposi 
tion.  The  two  natures  began  to  antagonize 
each  other.  The  egotism  and  self-absorption 

59 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

of  Woodbridge,  his  incessant  talk  of  his  pros 
pects  and  plans,  and  more  particularly  his  as 
tonishing  indifference  to  the  devoted  atten 
tions  of  Ruth  kept  Esteban  in  a  constant 
ferment  of  irritation.  At  first  he  had  con 
jectured  the  character  of  the  intimacy  be 
tween  Woodbridge  and  Ruth;  later  he  knew 
it  was  an  engagement. 

To  one  of  his  race  an  engagement  was 
akin  to  holy  matrimony  in  its  responsibilities; 
it  presupposed  devotion  to  the  beloved,  an 
abandonment  to  her  wishes,  a  reverence  for 
her  presence.  As  day  by  day  he  met  them  to 
gether  in  the  sick  chamber,  he  looked  in  vain 
for  any  fulfilment  of  his  idea.  At  first  he 
marveled.  Woodbridge's  coldness  was  inex 
plicable.  Perhaps  it  was  the  way  of  the 
American.  If  it  were  a  race  trait  then  it  was 
useless  to  look  for  any  change.  Woodbridge 
himself  couldn't  help  it,  at  this  thought  Es 
teban  almost  pitied  him.  But  Miss  Hastings 
was  an  American  as  well — here  his  general 
izing  ceased. 

60 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

One  day  three  weeks  after  the  accident, 
Esteban  was  leaving  Woodbridge's  room  as 
Ruth  entered.  Her  attitude  toward  him  was 
always  glad  and  gracious.  Today  her  face  was 
serious.  As  she  passed  on  into  the  room  he 
was  constrained  to  turn  and  lollow  her  with 
his  eyes.  Woodbridge  was  reclining  in  an 
easy-chair,  his  head  buried  in  a  newspaper, 
he  neither  moved  nor  smiled  as  Ruth  ap 
peared.  Esteban  saw  her  lean  to  kiss  him. 
Then  he  quickly  hurried  down  stairs,  out  into 
the  fresh  air,  staggering  as  one  wounded. 

The  night  after  the  day  at  El  Molino,  it 
was  the  romantic  impulse  of  the  impossible 
lover  that  stirred  his  heart;  now,  it  was  a 
feeling,  chivalric,  passionate,  a  yearning  to 
help  the  slighted  one,  that  went  out  from 
Ybarrando's  innermost  soul.  Woodbridge's 
inappreciation  had  quickened  Esteban's  sense 
of  knighthood. 


61 


CHAPTER  IV 

FROM     the     imperturably    pleasant 
countenance   and  cheery  voice  of 
Mr.    Eben    Rodman,    the    most 
skillful  interpreter  of  the  human 
heart  would  have  drawn  conclu 
sions  altogether  false.     To  pronounce  him  a 
contented  man  was  a  wrong  that  his  own  soul 
continually  resented.   Where  is  the  bachelor's 
soul  that  does  not?   In  the  eyes  of  the  world 
and  even  to  his  intimate  friends  his  bachelor 
hood  was  confirmed.   Yet,  year  by  year,  Mr. 
Eben  Rodman's  loneliness  increased,  and  his 
large  fortune  cried  out  for  progeny. 

He  was  generous  too,  supporting  this 
cause  and  that.  His  special  hobby  was  negro 
education.  Lately  his  interest  had  been  di 
verted  into  a  similar  channel,  similar  so  far 
as  it  involved  a  race-question.  He  had  be 
come  an  ardent  supporter  of  the  Anti-Im 
perialist  cause.  One  evening  at  the  St.  Ru- 
62 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

dolph  Club  he  brought  as  guest  a  young  en 
thusiast,  a  writer  of  books  on  Anti-Imperial 
ism.  Even  Boston  Anti-Imperialists  found 
the  young  man  too  radical,  and  Rodman's 
friends  exchanged  significant  glances,  con 
demning  him  for  harboring  so  dangerous  a 
personage.  Henceforth  Rodman's  popular 
ity  began  to  wane. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  asthma  drove 
him  for  the  winter  to  Southern  California. 
When  the  warm  days  came,  Rodman  decided 
to  forego  the  usual  summer  in  Switzerland 
for  life  in  a  house-boat  on  the  bay  near  Lui- 
cito.  There  was  a  charming  sea  resort  close 
by  where  the  Hastings  had  taken  up  quarters 
for  the  season. 

Today  as  Eben  Rodman  came  out  for  an 
afternoon  stroll  with  Miss  Hastings,  he  was 
unusually  excited. 

"Here  is  an  article  on  our  treatment  of  the 

Filipinos  that  I  should  like  to  read  to  you, 

every  word   of  it,"   he   said,   greeting  Miss 

Carolyn  and  relieving  her  of  her  pongee  sun- 

63 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

shade. 

Miss  Hastings  walked  slowly  by  his  side 
trying  to  appear  interested. 

"Remembering  Miss  Hastings  that  the 
typical  Filipino  is  every  whit  as  distinct  from 
the  negro  as  you  are,  and  that  there  are  in 
Manila  many  educated  people  who  have  en 
joyed  European  culture,  listen  to  this  on  the 
attitude  of  our  army  women,"  and  he  hur 
riedly  read  aloud  from  the  magazine  he  was 
holding,  commenting  upon  each  sentence. 

"How  abominably  ridiculous!  And  hear 
one  of  these  women  discussing  affairs  when 
making  a  call  on  the  wife  of  a  member  of  the 
Commission,  hear  her  exclaiming  in  horror, 
'Why  surely  you  don't  propose  to  visit  these 
people  and  invite  them  to  your  own  home  just 
the  same  as  you  would  white  people  !'  "  Rod 
man's  voice  was  high-pitched  and  he  paused 
in  his  walk.  "Think  of  their  narrowness  in  at 
tempting  to  exclude  from  the  Woman's  Hos 
pital  all  Filipinos  as  patients,  and  in  forbid 
ding  the  natives  the  use  of  the  library — and 
64 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Philippine  taxes  supporting  it.  Outrageous!" 
"But  see  what  it  gives  as  a  reason,"  inter 
posed  Carolyn,  looking  over  his  shoulder 
and  reading  the  lines  he  had  omitted.  "Of 
course  there  was  some  point  in  it  when  the 
library  had  been  established  as  a  monument 
to  American  soldiers  who  had  lost  their  lives 
in  the  Philippines." 

"Point!  What  point?  What  sort  of  a 
monument?  A  monument  of  ignominy,  if  the 
natives  were  forbidden  to  darken  the  doors. 
Fine  civilizing,  this!"  and  Rodman  groaned 
with  disgust.  "But  I  shan't  bore  you  any 
further  with  this— I'm  delighted  that  Sena 
tor  Hoar  is  holding  the  capitalists  at  bay  in 
his  amendments  to  the  Spooner  Bill.  They 
had  a  scheme  to  over  run  the  Islands  witl1 
coolie  labour,"  and  closing  the  magazine 
Rodman  turned  his  attention  solely  to  Miss 
Hastings. 

"It  is  rather  warm  walking,  shall  we  sit 
here?"  and  he  led  her  along  the  board  walk 
to  one  of  the  pavilions  overlooking  the  wa- 
65 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

ter. 

"Miss  Ruth  tells  me  that  you  like  it  here 
very  much,  so  much  that  you  have  been  think 
ing  of  renting  a  cottage  for  the  summer.  I've 
been  here  now  since  May,  living  day  in  and 
day  out  on  the  bay,  and  I'm  scarcely  aware  of 
the  fact  that  I  ever  had  asthma,"  and  the  lit 
tle  gentleman  drew  up  his  neat,  firm  figure 
and  took  in  a  whiff  of  the  sparkling  air. 

Miss  Hastings  threw  back  her  Chudda 
shawl.  "I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  I  do 
not  even  care  to  lie  down  in  the  afternoon  — 
it  must  be  the  quality  of  the  air.  My  nights 
too  are  perfect;  it  is  strange  when  I  could 
not  stay  for  a  single  night  at  Magnolia.  The 
beating  of  the  surf  made  me  so  nervous  that 
Ruth  had  to  rouse  the  maid  and  take  me 
back  to  Boston  on  the  ten  o'clock  train. 
Here  the  sound  of  the  breakers  puts  one  to 
sleep.  Yes,  I  like  it  very  much." 

Rodman  looked  out  over  the  bay  with  a 
satisfied  smile  on  his  face.  "I  see  you  have 
caught  some  of  my  enthusiasm  and  I  am  de- 
66 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

lighted.  If  you  will  only  stay  long  enough," 
the  tone  of  his  voice  was  not  disinterested. 

"Do  you  know  I  have  an  original  idea 
about  a  house,  Mr.  Rodman,"  continued 
Carolyn.  "Across  the  bay,  about  six  miles 
from  Luicito  is  the  Ybarrando  estate  and  the 
old  ranch-house  is  still  standing.  Some  of  the 
family  are  living  there;  but  the  father  has 
become  paralyzed  and  is  going  to  move  into 
the  city  to  live  with  his  son.  You  remember 
the  Mexican  Ybarrando?  It  is  his  family. 
They  say  the  house  is  very  well  preserved  — 
a  large  adobe,  and  that  there  is  an  abundance 
of  delicious  fruit  on  the  place.  I've  been 
thinking  that  Ruth  and  I  might  rent  the  house 
and  stay  on  here  until  Christmas,  when  Ruth 
is  to  be  married. 

"It  seems  to  me  a  most  practical  and  wise 
plan.  The  hotel  will  not  be  so  agreeable  in 
July  and  August.  I  hope  you  will  succeed 
in  carrying  it  out.  May  I  do  anything  about  it 
for  you?"  eagerly  responded  Rodman. 

Carolyn   was   not   prepared   for   such   fa- 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

miliarity;  fearing  that  she  had  spoken  too 
freely  of  her  affairs,  she  drew  up  her  shawl, 
and  rose  to  go  back. 

With  the  intention  of  the  Hastings  rent 
ing  the  old  adobe  for  the  rest  of  the  season, 
Ruth  and  Woodbridge  planned  to  visit  the 
Ybarrando  rancho  one  evening.  Esteban  was 
to  take  them  through  the  house.  At  noon 
Woodbridge  announced  that  work  at  the  lab 
oratory  would  probably  detain  him,  and  that 
Ruth  would  better  not  wait  for  him  after 
four  o'clock.  Ruth  was  crestfallen.  Weeks 
had  gone  by  since  she  and  her  lover  had  tak 
en  any  pleasure  together,  for  days  she  had 
anticipated  this  outing.  At  the  appointed 
hour  Woodbridge  did  not  appear. 

Alone  she  went  down  to  the  bay  where 
Esteban  had  a  boat  waiting.  Swiftly  he 
rowed  across  into  a  nook  of  the  bay— a  cir 
cling  inlet,  where  the  tall  grasses  and  tules 
choked  the  water  and  the  shy  marsh-birds 
wheeled  overhead— here  they  landed,  and 
walking  a  dozen  yards  came  to  the  adobe 
68 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

hidden  among  trees  and  nestling  in  a  niche 
of  the  foot-hills.  As  Ruth  stepped  on  to  the 
long  veranda,  the  hills  rose  so  closely,  it 
seemed  that  she  might  put  out  her  hand  and 
touch  their  dun  brown  sides.  Ybarrando  led 
her  across  the  garden  of  ill-kept  flower  beds 
and  neglected  shrubs,  down  through  the  end 
less  orchards  of  pomegranates  and  figs,  and 
back  again  into  the  patio  with  its  two  stately 
cypresses  and  giant  cactus.  Near  an  old  da 
tura,  now  in  bloom,  and  shedding  a  heavy 
fragrance  from  its  pendulous  white  blossoms, 
they  sat  down  to  rest. 

How  often  in  this  spot  had  Esteban  played 
and  been  rocked  to  sleep  by  his  mother! 
"Nino,  do— do — Ave  Maria — Ave  Maria," 
came  back  the  familiar  refrain;  and  as  he 
looked  up  to  the  hills  the  care-free  life  of 
his  youth  returned  and  Esteban  felt  a  boy 
again. 

"I  know  every  step  of  the  way  over  those 
foot-hills  and  over  the  mountains  beyond  for 
that  matter,"  said  Esteban  pointing  toward 
69 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

their  summits,  Ruth's  eyes  following  him. 
"Nowadays  I  don't  suppose  a  deer  track  is 
to  be  found,  and  the  bears  have  disappeared 
altogether." 

"Bears?"  queried  the  girl,  looking  dubious 
ly  up  at  the  hillside. 

"The  bears  attacked  the  camps  every  night 
• — the  camps  where  the  herders  lived  and 
where  they  rounded  up  the  sheep,"  Ybarran- 
do  hastened  to  explain.  Near  a  camp  was 
usually  a  foot-hill  where  the  sheep  would 
gather  at  night.  Almost  every  night  some 
of  the  herd  would  be  killed.  I  remember  one 
exciting  night  that  I  passed  at  the  camp  of 
Juan  de  Dios.  We  used  to  have  many  In 
dians  as  servants  here  on  the  rancho.  Juan 
de  Dios  was  one  of  the  most  faithful  and 
devoted.  My  brother  and  I  loved  him.  He 
was  a  huge  silent  fellow  and  would  perform 
any  service,  obeying  my  orders  when  I  was 
scarcely  ten.  At  intervals  he  would  disap 
pear  with  the  sheep. — thousands  of  them — 
and  be  absent  for  six  months — back  in  yon- 
7© 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

der  mountains  all  alone  with  his  sheep.  At 
this  time,  I  was  only  nine  years  old,  they  sent 
me  out  with  supplies  to  the  different  camps.  I 
would  go  horseback,  leading  the  mules  with 
the  pack  carrying  sugar,  beans,  tea,  coffee — 
a  heavy  enough  load.  Sometimes  night  would 
overtake  me  on  the  mountains." 

"You  would  go  alone  on  these  trips  and 
sleep  by  yourself  on  the  mountains,  with  bears 
attacking  the  camps  at  night  I"  exclaimed 
Ruth. 

"Certainly,  Senorita,  for  I  knew  how  to 
use  a  Winchester.  You'll  be  amused  when  I 
tell  you  that  when  I  made  my  first  shot,  I 
wasn't  able  to  do  it  standing,  and  fell  down 
on  my  knees.  But  my  game — my  first  effort 
— was  two  deer,  and  Esteban's  eyes  sparkled 
with  boyish  triumph  that  even  the  memory 
roused. 

"But  to  go  on  with  my  bear  story.  I  had 
been  travelling  all  day— the  camps  were  some 
times  twenty,  sometimes  sixty  miles  apart— 
when  I  reached  the  camp  of  Juan  de  Dios. 

71 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Juan  had  been  troubled  by  bears  for  many 
nights,  but  had  been  unsuccessful  in  catching 
one.  I  think  it  was  past  midnight  when  I  was 
wakened  by  the  Indian's  whispering  in  my 
ear,  'Ahi  esta  el  oso !  el  oso!'-  'There's 
the  bear!  the  bear!  Putting  our  ears  to  the 
earth,  we  listened  to  the  ground  vibrating 
with  the  hoofs  of  the  scattering  herd;  then 
Juan  lifted  up  the  flap  of  the  tent,  and  there, 
in  the  moonlight,  sat  a  great  bear  eating  a 
sheep;  he  was  but  a  yard  off,  seizing  my  Win 
chester  I  fired  and  down  dropped  the  great 
fellow  in  the  midst  of  his  supper." 

While  he  talked  Ruth  pictured  the  venture 
some  lad  starting  out  on  his  responsible  journ 
ey,  and  when  he  finished  his  story  they  both 
broke  into  laughter. 

"That  was  the  supreme  moment  of  your 
life,  but  wouldn't  it  have  been  generous  to 
have  allowed  the  old  fellow  to  finish  his  sup 
per?"  and  Ruth  glanced  ruefully  at  Esteban. 

"Neither  Juan  de  Dios  nor  I  was  in  the 
humor  for  ceremony",  and  he  stood  up,  smil- 
72 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

ing  down  at  her  bright  face  under  the  swaying 
blossoms,  then  he  began  to  walk  ruminatingly 
before  her. 

Ruth  looked  about  at  the  rose  tangles 
smothered  in  dust,  at  the  rows  of  lilies  shriv 
elled  like  strips  of  brown  paper — even  the 
cypresses  were  rusted — dying  for  lack  of  wa 
ter. 

Esteban  stopped  in  front  of  her. 

"It  seems  centuries  since  those  days,  Seno- 
rita,  sometimes  I  wonder  if  they  were  at  all; 
now  the  life  is  so  different,  the  rancho,  the 
adobe,  the  entire  place  is  dilapidated,  gone 
to  pieces." 

There  was  a  hopeless  sadness  in  his  voice. 

Instinctively  the  girl  rose  from  her  seat, 
and  moved  toward  him. 

"It  was  all  very  beautiful  once",  she  said, 
surveying  the  waste  and  pointing  to  a  gnarled 
rose-stalk  that  had  woven  itself  inextricably 
around  roof  and  windows— "that  must  be  a 
very  old  rose  — it  is  thick  as  a  tree-trunk." 

"My  mother  planted  it  just  before  I  was 
73 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

born,  she  always  called  it  my  rose — it  is  a 
La  Marque."  They  both  crossed  the  patio, 
standing  in  silence  for  a  moment  before  the 
woody,  leafless  vine. 

"It  is  dead",  Esteban  said. 

Ruth  leaned  over  it,  examining  it  carefully, 
"Are  you  sure  that  it  is  Senor  Ybarrando? 
Plants  do  not  die  easily,  especially  in  Cali 
fornia.  It  may  only  need  water  and  atten 
tion.  If  we  come,  I  shall  nurse  it  back  to 
life". 

She  lifted  up  her  face  sympathetically  to 
his,  but  Esteban,  turning  his  back,  said 
abruptly,  "Would  you  like  to  see  my  father, 
Senorita?  Since  his  last  illness  he  speaks 
with  difficulty,  but  he  enjoys  meeting  people. 
Francisca  says  that  he  talks  with  his  eyes  to 
every  friend  who  takes  the  trouble  to  come. 
Few  come  out  here  now,  he  gets  very  lonely. 
I'm  sure  that  he  would  be  glad  to  see  you", 
and  Ybarrando  got  up. 

"Yes,  it  would  give  me  great  pleasure  to 
meet  Don  Dolores  Ybarrando,"  said  Ruth. 

74 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"I  hope  it  will  not  disturb  him  to  have  me 
look  through  the  rooms,"  she  continued, 
following  Esteban  as  he  crossed  the  patio 
and  led  the  way  through  a  long  room — the 
sala — to  the  front  veranda.  It  was  paved 
with  large  square  bricks,  off  from  it  ran  a 
narrow  winding  stairway  to  an  upper  veran 
da.  The  Ybarrando  adobe  was  one  of  the 
half-dozen  or  more  old  houses  that  boasted 
a  second  story.  At  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
Ybarrando  passed  Ruth  quickly,  and  opened 
the  last  door  into  a  shadowy  little  room  with 
one  deep  window. 

In  the  center  of  the  room  in  a  cushioned 
chair  in  which  its  occupant  was  lost,  a  frail 
old  gentleman  reclined.  His  handsome  head 
was  thrown  back,  the  silver  hair  falling  care 
lessly  on  either  side,  and  the  luminous  eyes 
bent  expectantly  toward  the  door.  The 
face  broke  into  a  tender  smile  as  Esteban  en 
tered.  Ruth  thought  she  had  never  seen  so 
winning  a  countenance.  Don  Dolores'  eyes 
did  not  leave  off  delighting  themselves  with 
75 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

the  sight  of  his  son  until  he  stood  close  by 
the  chair,  then  they  were  turned  to  her.  Ruth 
was  unaware  that  Esteban  had  told  Don 
Dolores  about  her,  so  naturally  she  was  sur 
prised  at  his  greeting.  It  was  as  if  they  had 
met  many  times.  His  glance  was  full  of  ad 
miration  without  curiosity;  a  divine  confi 
dence  emanated  from  the  old  man  as  bend 
ing  over,  he  kissed  her  hand,  pointing  to  a 
stool  at  his  feet. 

Ruth  sat  down,  and  Esteban  going  out, 
she  began  to  tell  Don  Dolores  how  much  she 
liked  the  rancho.  "It  is  very  lovely  here," 
she  said,  "muy  bonita,  Don  Dolores,"  and 
she  gave  him  one  of  her  sunny  glances,  as 
her  eyes  wandered  from  his  face,  out  to  the 
tranquil  bay  and  the  golden  reaches  beyond. 

Esteban  came  in,  a  tray  of  white  and  pur 
ple  figs  in  his  hands.  He  laid  them  in  Ruth's 
lap  and  went  noiselessly  away. 

"You  are  fond  of  figs,  Don  Dolores?" 
asked  Ruth.  "I  thought  so  when  I  saw  your 
fine  orchards.  They're  rather  trying  to  eat," 
76 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

and  Ruth  began  to  break  one. 

"No,  no,  Sefiorita,  this  way,  this  way — 
the  only  way,"  and  with  deft  fingers  Don 
Dolores  broke  open  the  skin,  carefully  dis 
lodging  the  luscious  fruit  and  holding  it 
toward  her.  Ruth  took  it  gleefully  into  her 
mouth.  "The  most  delicious  fig  I  ever 
tasted,"  she  cried.  "Now  let  me  try  to  open 
one  for  you,  Don  Dolores,  though  I'm  cer 
tain  to  make  a  failure  of  it." 

With  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  Don  Dolores 
chose  a  very  ripe  fig  and  handed  it  to  Ruth. 
"Oh,  Don  Dolores,  this  isn't  quite  fair," 
laughed  Ruth,  taking  the  fig.  "Very  ripe 
figs  are  only  for  experts  like  yourself." 

This  childish  banter  and  amusement  were 
interrupted  by  the  appearance  in  the  door 
way  of  a  lithe,  womanly  figure.  She  wore  a 
black  sateen  dress  that  fitted  her  perfectly, 
and  about  the  olive  throat  a  purple  handker 
chief  was  loosely  knotted.  A  heavy  braid 
of  lustrous  black  hair  fell  below  her  waist, 
and  her  eyes  were  half  hidden  by  dark  lashes 

77 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

that  swept  her  cheeks,  lending  naivete  to  the 
whole  face.  She  came  forward  holding  in 
her  shapely  hands  two  abalone  shells  of  un 
usual  size  and  beauty. 

"See,  see,  tilito,  these  are  for  you,"  said 
the  girl  in  Spanish.  At  the  sight  of  Ruth, 
she  drew  back,  standing  shy  and  speechless, 
letting  her  full  eyelids  droop. 

Don  Dolores  spoke  very  slowly.  "Nina, 
come  here,  and  see  your  cousin  Esteban's 
friend,  la  Senorita  Hastings."  Gracefully 
as  a  flower  unfolds,  she  moved  toward  Ruth, 
reaching  out  one  of  her  hands  and  glancing 
coyly  from  beneath  the  sweeping  lashes. 

Ruth,  struck  by  the  uncommon  beauty  of 
the  young  girl,  looked  wide-eyed,  with  pleas 
ure.  She  recognized  beneath  her  artlessness 
a  dignity,  a  latent  haughtiness  that  the  girl's 
modesty  could  not  conceal.  Once  or  twice 
Ruth  had  observed  a  certain  hauteur  of  bear 
ing  in  Esteban.  She  wondered  if  it  were  a 
family  trait. 

"This  is  Francisca,  isn't  it?"  said  Ruth. 
78 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  to  thank  you  for  the 
beautiful  shell  that  you  sent  to  me  by  your 
cousin." 

Put  at  her  ease,  Francisca  knelt  down  by 
her  uncle's  chair.  "I  go  a  long  way,  Senorita. 
You  been  to  El  Socorro,  six  miles  away?  I 
walk  and  the  Japanese  give  them  to  me  for 
nothing." 

Ruth  thought  she  had  never  heard  a 
quainter  speech.  Each  word  was  uttered  un 
certainly,  the  young  girl  looking  timidly  to 
ward  Ruth,  as  she  put  back  the  heavy  braid 
that  fell  across  her  breast,  as  though  it  would 
crush  her. 

"Do  you  walk  so  far  often?"  asked  Ruth. 
"You  must  be  very  tired." 

"Tired?"  queried  the  girl.  "I  am  not  tired. 
I  walk  all  day,  I  am  never  tired."  As  Fran 
cisca  spoke  she  gazed  at  the  golden  lights 
playing  about  Ruth's  hair,  reminding  her  of 
the  aureole  around  the  holy  Madonna's  face 
in  the  altar-picture  in  the  old  church  in  Lui- 
cito. 

79 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

While  the  two  women  sat  at  Don  Dolores' 
feet  he  was  very  happy.  He  had  ever  wor 
shipped  beauty  in  women,  and  age  had  not 
lessened  his  ardour.  But  tears  trembled  in 
his  eyes,  as  looking  towards  the  window  he 
thought  of  his  beloved  Tranquilina.  Again 
he  heard  the  melancholy  wailing  of  the  wom 
en  as  her  precious  body  was  borne  from  the 
sala  below,  away  to  the  campo  santo  on  the 
barren  mesa;  again  he  saw  the  boy  Esteban 
rush  in,  flinging  his  little  body  in  grief  across 
the  empty  bed.  He  remembered  his  own 
anxiety  when  the  lad  would  eat  nothing  for 
two  days. 

"Francisca,  Francisca,"  called  a  woman's 
querulous  voice,  and  an  elderly  Mexican  wom 
an  came  to  the  door.  Her  eyes,  large  and 
wild,  were  deeply  sunken  in  her  emaciated 
face  and  her  hair  was  dishevelled  and  flying. 
She  walked  unsteadily  toward  Don  Dolores. 

"Francisca,  why  do  you  not  come  when  you 
are  called?  Your  uncle  must  have  his  soup. 
It  is  late,  very  late."  She  spoke  a  good  Span- 
So 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

ish,  but  so  harshly  and  rapidly  that  the  mel 
ody  was  jangled,  and  Ruth  could  not  under 
stand  what  she  said.  She  had  not  observed 
Ruth  until  she  was  by  her  side,  then  she 
turned  her  back  upon  her  and  stood  before 
her  husband  Don  Dolores. 

The  old  man  grew  agitated  and  flushed. 
"Dona  Sacramento,  this  is  la  Sefiorita  Hast 
ings,  Esteban's  friend,"  said  Don  Dolores. 

Muttering  something  in  Spanish,  the  wom 
an  looked  keenly  at  Ruth  and  put  out  her 
hand.  Then  turning  again  to  Don  Dolores 
she  asked  sternly  "Is  she  a  good  Catholic? 
Tell  her  I  hope  that  she  is.  Say  to  her  that 
your  son  is  lost,  that  in  spite  of  your  prayers, 
my  prayers,  he  must  suffer  eternal  punish 
ment.  Tell  her  that  he  never  goes  to  church, 
never  to  confession,  gives  nothing  to  the 
priests.  Tell  her  that  he  is  lost !"  She  leaned 
over  the  old  man,  hissing  the  malediction  in 
his  ears — "Esta  condenado,  esta  condenado." 

Her  thin  black  dress  fell  in  folds  about  her 
lank  figure,  a  rosary  hung  at  her  belt  and 
81 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

three  long  crosses,  blue,  black  and  red, 
dangled  from  her  gaunt  bare  neck.  After 
her  outburst  she  walked  to  the  far  end  of 
the  room  to  an  oil  burner,  looking  neither  to 
right  nor  left.  Making  the  sign  of  the  cross 
she  began  mixing  some  gruel.  She  stirred  it 
abstractedly,  her  head  thrown  back  and  her 
bright  dark  eyes  moving  restlessly  all  the 
while.  In  the  twilight,  her  morbid  features 
resembled  those  of  a  witch. 

Alarmed  by  the  woman,  Ruth  moved  to 
ward  the  door. 

Francisca  neither  stirred  nor  spoke,  but 
crouched  nearer  to  her  uncle. 

At  this  moment  Esteban  entered.  "We 
must  go  Senorita,  I  fear  that  even  now  the 
tide  will  leave  us  and  the  pull  home  will  be 
hard." 

At  the  sound  of  Esteban's  voice  Dona  Sac 
ramento  turned,  and  brandishing  the  long  iron 
spoon  in  her  hand,  advanced  toward  him,  her 
crosses  rattling,  and  her  white,  uneven  teeth 
chattering. 

82 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"Thou  art  lost  thou  child  of  sin.  No  pray 
ers  now  will  avail.  As  a  boy  thou  wert 
stubborn,  thou  wouldst  not  bow  thine  head  be 
fore  thine  own  mother's  crucifix,  thou  wouldst 
not  fast,  neither  wouldst  thou  use  the  holy 
water,  lost,  lost  thou  art!  Even  the  beloved 
San  Jose  will  hearken  no  longer  to  my  entreat 
ies".  Breathless  and  pale  with  anger  she 
paused  in  her  imprecations. 

Esteban,  motioning  to  Francisca,  bade  her 
descend  with  Ruth;  and  he,  an  expression  of 
sad  contempt  upon  his  face,  took  Dona  Sac 
ramento  by  the  arm  and  gently  pushed  her 
into  the  next  room.  Cowed,  yet  full  of  rage, 
the  tall  figure  disappeared. 

While  Ruth  waited,  she  and  Francisca 
looked  over  the  house.  She  was  touched 
by  the  poverty  and  meagerness  of  the  furni 
ture.  There  were  no  carpets  on  the  floor  of 
the  sala  and  the  haircloth  chairs  were  shabby 
and  threadbare.  A  bureau  was  in  one  corner, 
and  over  the  round  table  hung  the  portrait 
of  a  young  and  beautiful  woman  closely  re- 
83 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

sembling  the  girl  Francisca.  About  her 
shoulders  a  Spanish  lace  veil  was  festooned, 
caught  at  her  breast  with  a  medallion.  But 
even  the  portraits  were  marred  and  the 
frames  falling  apart. 

In  spite  of  the  signs  of  indigence  there 
was  something  attractive  in  the  interior — a 
reminder  of  patriarchal  hospitality  in  the 
ample  proportions;  the  aroma  of  a  gracious 
past  in  the  deep-seated  windows  and  wide 
doorways  with  their  vistas  of  garden  and 
patio. 

Francisca  brought  a  lamp.  "Come,  see, 
Senorita,"  she  said,  motioning  Ruth  to 
follow  her  into  a  bedroom  which  led  off  from 
the  sala. 

"This  is  Dona  Sacramento's  altar,"  said 
the  girl,  bowing  devoutly  before  a  tawdry 
shrine,  decorated  with  black  and  yellow 
roses,  and  adorned  with  row  after  row  of 
miniature  wax  saints.  "She  made  these 
saints  herself.  It  took  her  a  long  time  to 
make  San  Jose.  Isn't  he  beautiful?  She 
84 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

prays  many  times  a  day  to  him."  Lowering 
her  voice  Francisca  drew  closer  to  Ruth. 
"She  gives  him  much  money,  see  this  little 
silk  bag,"  and  Francisca  raised  the  lapel  of 
San  Jose's  vestment,  "many  gold  pieces  in 
the  bag;  a  bag  is  on  his  back  too.  The  other 
saints  wear  only  one  small  bag.  She  does  not 
pray  often  to  them.  Once  I  saw  her  kiss  San 
Jose." 

"What  are  these?"  asked  Ruth  with  curi 
osity,  as  she  looked  around  the  dimly  lighted 
walls. 

From  floor  to  ceiling  they  were  covered 
with  large  sheets  of  light  blue  paper,  crudely 
outlined  with  symbolic  figures  of  tonsured 
monks,  crosses  suspended  from  their  ears 
and  tiny  butterflies  fluttering  about  their 
bodies, — the  center  of  each  insect  was  a 
cross;  the  wings  of  a  bird  covered  their 
breasts — the  wings  held  together  by  an  in 
fant  virgin — she  had  a  pretty  face  and  wore 
a  blue  and  gold  collarette. 

Ruth  observed  that  the  days  of  the  month 

85 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

and  the  year  were  printed  at  intervals  on  the 
paper.  "What  mystical  pictures!"  she  ex 
claimed  to  Francisca,  who,  with  enthusiasm 
gone,  stood  holding  the  lamp  closely  up  to 
Ruth,  taking  in  every  detail  of  la  Ameri- 
cana's  dress. 

"These  are  evidently  meant  to  be  a  church 
calendar,"  said  Ruth.  "And  Dona  Sacra 
mento  did  them  herself?  They  remind  me 
of  pictures  that  I  saw  in  the  museum  in  Mex 
ico." 

At  that  moment  Esteban  came  into  the 
room.  "We  must  go  at  once,  Senorita. 
Dona  Sacramento  is  at  last  quieted,"  and 
they  went  back  into  the  sala. 

As  he  helped  Ruth  on  with  her  jacket  he 
turned  to  Francisca,  who  leaned  against  the 
wall  watching  every  movement  of  Esteban. 

"See  that  your  uncle  goes  to  bed  very 
soon,"  he  said  in  Spanish.  "She  will  be  quiet 
the  rest  of  the  evening.  I  gave  her  some 
money." 

They  went  out  on  the  veranda.  "Good- 
86 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

bye,"  said  Ruth,  taking  Francisca's  hand. 

Francisca  followed  them  down  the  steps. 
"Buenas  noches,  Senorita,"  and  the  young 
girl  stood  there  in  the  darkness  until  she 
could  hear  their  voices  no  longer,  then  turn 
ed  dejectedly  into  the  lonely  adobe. 


CHAPTER  V 

IT  was  eight  o'clock  and  moonlight 
as  Woodbridge  sauntered  up  the 
board  walk  to  La  Concha,  the  beach 
hotel.  "Is  Miss  Ruth  Hastings 
back?"  he  inquired. 

"No  she  didn't  come  in  to  dinner,"  replied 
the  new  clerk  who  was  leaning  over  the  reg 
istry  eagerly  scanning  the  names. 

"She  ought  to  be  back  by  this  time,"  com 
mented  Woodbridge  to  himself,  and  he 
looked  at  his  watch  as  he  turned  down  the 
walk  toward  the  boat-house.  "Perhaps  the 
tide  went  against  them,  and  they  have  had 
to  walk.  Ybarrando  ought  to  have  known 
better,  those  Mexicans  never  consider  any 
thing." 

He  had  reached  the  landing,  and  he  sat 
down  on  the  steps  to  wait,  taking  from  his 
vest    pocket    a    small    note-book    and    com 
mencing  to  make  several  rows  of  figures. 
88 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"If  the  deal  with  Hotson  goes  through,  I 
shall  be  able  to  get  an  option  on  that  mine  at 
Gabriela  that  Johnson  has  just  written  me 
about.  I  must  try  to  get  down  to  Gabriela," 
he  was  saying  to  himself. 

He  put  his  note-book  into  his  pocket,  got 
up  and  began  pacing  up  and  down  the  land 
ing.  "I  don't  believe  Ruth  would  mind  stay 
ing  on  here  through  the  autumn,  and  I 
should  get  back  in  January  at  the  latest. 
This  would  give  more  time  to  investigate 
matters.  I'll  talk  it  over  with  her  to-night," 
continued  Woodbridge  to  himself.  Then  he 
sat  down  again,  rolled  a  cigarette  and  began 
to  smoke.  "George!  I  don't  seem  to  see 
much  of  the  girl  these  days.  It  will  soon  be 
a  year  since  she  came  and  I've  been  too  busy 
to  go  anywhere.  But  to-day  a  fellow  can't 
be  a  man  of  leisure  if  he  ever  expects  to  have 
a  bank  account.  When  did  I  have  a  day's 
vacation?  It  must  have  been  two  years 
ago."  His  cigarette  finished,  Woodbridge's 
head  dropped  on  his  chest,  and  worn  and 
89 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

tired  he  closed  his  eyes. 

To-night  the  waters  in  the  harbor  were 
magical  with  the  shifting  phosphorescent 
lights  that  sometimes  make  the  Pacific  an  en 
chanted  ocean.  Now  and  then  Woodbridge 
opened  his  eyes,  but  was  unconscious  of  the 
glory  about  him.  Presently  in  the  distance 
rose  the  sound  of  plashing  oars  and  a 
woman's  voice;  but  it  was  too  far  away  yet 
to  rouse  him. 

"I  would  rather  you  wouldn't  talk  so," 
she  was  saying,  and  as  Ruth  leaned  forward 
in  the  boat  she  saw  between  the  flashes  of 
vivid  yet  ghostly  light,  the  face  of  Esteban, 
passionate,  set  and  pale. 

"Let  me  speak,  Senorita,  humble  though 
my  thoughts  are.  You  know  how  monoton 
ous  my  daily  occupation  is.  I  am  without 
companionship,  despised,  ostracized  by  the 
Americans  about  me.  What  consolation  then 
to  have  found  such  kindness  at  your  hands; 
an  honor,  I  confess,  to  be  treated  with  such 
deference.  What  less  may  I  do,  Senorita, 
90 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

than  to  thank  you  a  thousand  times?  God 
grant  that  some  day  I  may  be  able  to  show 
you  my  gratitude."  Each  sentence,  each 
word,  flashed  forth  with  fiery  vehemence 
from  the  depth  of  Esteban's  soul,  which  to 
night  was  as  full  of  hopeless  gloom  as  the 
ocean's  void  below  them. 

"Hello,  there!"  shouted  Woodbridge,  as 
Ybarrando  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment 
rowed  beyond  the  landing.  Instantly  he 
turned  and  Woodbridge  helped  Ruth  out  of 
the  boat. 

"Rather  late  isn't  it  for  you  to  be  getting 
back?"  said  Woodbridge. 

We've  had  a  serious  time,"  answered 
Ruth.  If  Senor  Ybarrando  had  not  been 
perfectly  familiar  with  the  channel  we  should 
have  had  to  walk  home.  He  was  very  skill 
ful,  and  here  we  are  at  last,"  and  she  took 
Woodbridge's  arm,  looking  up  into  his  face, 
asking  for  some  recognition  of  Esteban. 

Ybarrando  came  up  listening  with  grate 
ful  expression  on  his  face  to  Ruth's  words, 

91 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

and  letting  the  oars  drip  on  his  trousers.  At 
no  response  from  Woodbridge,  he  turned  as 
if  stung,  and  went  to  the  boat-house. 

"Do  be  gracious  to  him,  Gerald,"  whis 
pered  Ruth,  as  Esteban  reappeared  and  ex 
tended  his  hand  to  her. 

"Hadn't  you  better  come  and  have  your 
dinner  with  Miss  Hastings,  Ybarrando,  both 
of  you  must  be  hungry?"  said  Woodbridge. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Woodbridge,  but  I  must 
go  back  to  the  city,  so  I'll  say  good  night," 
and  Esteban  hastened  to  the  station,  which 
lay  in  the  opposite  direction  from  the  hotel. 

Ruth  and  Woodbridge  soon  reached  La 
Concha.  As  they  went  up  the  steps  of  the 
veranda,  he  took  an  envelope  from  his 
pocket.  "I  had  a  letter  from  Johnson  to 
day,"  he  began.  Those  Gabriela  mines  are 
going  to  be  great  producers;  he  advises  me 
to  take  an  option  on  some  land  near  the  Jesus 
Maria;  he  assures  me  there  is  a  rich  deposit 
of  gold." 

Woodbridge  led  the  way  into  the  dining 
92 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

room,  sitting  down  opposite  to  Ruth.  "Per 
haps  you  won't  mind  my  reading  the  letter 
while  we  wait,"  and  he  leaned  toward  the 
light  and  read :  "We've  got  to  have  splendid 
results,  conditions  are  so  favorable.  These 
old  mines  and  modern  methods  united  form 
the  best  combination.  They  were  worked 
fifty  years  before  the  Revolution.  The  other 
day  I  ran  across  some  smelting  furnaces — 
they  call  'em  Vasos';  it  would  make  you 
smile  to  compare  them  with  the  modern  ma 
chinery.  Can't  you  get  down  soon?  There's 
a  magnificent  hoist  at  the  mouth  of  the  grand 
central  shaft.  The  old  mines  were  said  to 
be  worth  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand;  new 
ones  not  less  than  a  couple  of  millions.  I 
think  we'll  find  it  worth  while  to  keep  on. 
All  O.  K.  at  the  Jesus  Maria.  Adios.  Karl." 
"1  must  go,  Ruth.  A  couple  of  millions 
in  prospect,  a  man  shouldn't  hesitate,"  said 
Woodbridge.  "I  should  try  to  return  by 
Christmas.  We  could  postpone  the  wedding 
until  January,  begin  the  new  year  together  if 

93 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

it  weren't  possible  for  me  to  get  back  in  De 
cember.  What  do  you  say,  Ruth;  will  it  be 
the  new  year?"  and  Woodbridge  handed 
Ruth  a  plate  with  a  coaxing  glance. 

"I'm  not  hungry  tonight,  Gerald,  but  while 
I  eat  let  me  consider  just  what  we  ought  to 
do.  I'm  not  thinking  of  myself,"  she  went 
on  slowly,  "for  if  you  don't  care— 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  caring,  Ruth;  of 
course  I  care — it's  simply  one  of  time  and 
money.  One  month  more  for  the  business 
will  give  me  an  opportunity  to  run  down  to 
the  City  of  Mexico  to  close  up  that  deal  with 
the  Canadian  Electric  Company.  1  should 
have  to  go  sooner  or  later." 

Ruth  looked  desperate  as  he  mentioned 
this  new  interest.  "Why  Gerald  I  thought  it 
was  only  the  mines  in  Mexico.  You  seem  to 
be  involved  in  every  sort  of  project,  it  will  be 
dangerous  to  let  you  out  of  my  sight;  besides 
dear,"  and  she  arose  and  they  sauntered  out 
to  the  piazza,  "what  is  it  all  worth  when  it 
keeps  us  apart?  The  entire  summer  it  has 

94 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

been  "oil";  even  here  in  California  I  only 
see  you  at  intervals.  Sometimes  I  think  it 
would  have  been  better  if  we  had  never  be 
come  engaged,  more  honest  perhaps,  to  break 
the  engagement." 

"What  do  you  mean  Ruth,  are  you  crazy?" 
harshly  demanded  Woodbridge,  surprised  at 
the  cool  deliberation  in  her  words,  the  deter 
mination  in  her  voice. 

"No  Gerald,  I'm  perfectly  aware  of  what 
I  am  saying.  We  are  only  engaged  in  form, 
the  spirit  was  crushed  months  ago."  Uncon 
sciously  they  had  begun  to  stroll  down  the 
smooth,  hard  beach,  the  phosphorescent  wa 
ters  playing  at  their  feet  in  unsympathetic 
splendor. 

"Perhaps  we  never  truly  loved  one  another; 
otherwise  how  could  mines  and  money  draw 
you  away,  hold  you  from  me  day  by  day; 
sometimes  it  all  appears  a  great  mistake,  as 
though  we  had  been  deceiving  ourselves — the 
one  awful  experience  in  life — been  mistaking 
liking  for  love — but  it's  not  too  late — "  there 

95 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

was  a  new  note  in  the  woman's  voice  which 
Woodbridge  did  not  like. 

"Why  Ruth  what's  the  matter  tonight? 
Come  now,  let  us  be  sensible.  I  know  you've 
been  lovely  and  unselfish,  but  I  postponed 
our  marriage  because  I  wanted  to  offer  you  a 
home  and  surroundings  such  as  you'd  always 
been  accustomed  to.  Your  own  little  fortune 
is  a  mere  pittance;  and  it  isn't  as  it  was  fifty, 
even  twenty-five  years  ago.  Now,  a  man  to 
keep  up  any  sort  of  an  establishment  has  to 
be  worth  a  half  a  million  or  more.  I've  ne 
gotiated  for  the  Poyoreno  estate,  got  myself 
involved  and  there's  no  way  out  of  it,  unless 
we're  willing  to  stop  right  here  and  turn  sheep 
herders  or  farmers  on  a  five  acre  ranch— lead 
a  sort  of  Paul  and  Virginia  life,  give  up  all 
our  ambitions." 

"Please  dont'  say  'our  ambitions'  ",  pro 
tested  Ruth.  "Since  I've  seen  what  money- 
making  has  done  to  you,  Gerald  I  despise  it 
all.  Let  us  give  it  up  and  go  back  to  sim 
plicity  when  we  shall  have  time  to  love  and 
96 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

enjoy  all  this"  — and  she  pointed  out  toward 
the  brilliant  waters  glowing  resplendent  in  the 
darkness. 

For  the  first  time  Woodbridge  noticed  the 
spectacle  before  them,  but  he  made  no  com 
ment,  only  turned  to  go  back  to  the  hotel. 

"Oh,  Gerald,  what  may  I  do  to  help  you, 
for  my  love  hasn't  seemed  to  count  for  much ! 
All  this  year  I've  watched  and  agonized  over 
this  living  death,  for  that's  all  that  your  life 
is — the  commercial  spirit  is  paralyzing  you." 

In  the  moonlight  Woodbridge's  face  shone 
with  bitterness  and  hardness.  "You  talk  like 
a  school  girl,  Ruth.  Of  course  I  love  you  as 
much  as  I  ever  did,  but  I  can't  be  a  baby.  A 
man  must  be  a  man,  and  to  do  as  you  would 
have  me  I  should  be  counted  a  fool — a  lu 
natic." 

"I  thought  it  would  be  too  late,  it  was  too 
late  when  I  came,"  murmured  Ruth  to  her 
self,  and  she  moved  slowly  up  the  steps  of 
the  hotel.  "Do  as  you  think  best,  Gerald.  I 
have  no  jurisdiction  over  your  going  and  com- 

97 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

ing — and  the  wedding  doesn't  matter." 

Woodbridge  had  never  seen  Ruth  in  so 
unsatisfactory  a  mood,  she  had  always  re 
linquished  cheerfully.  He  couldn't  marry 
Ruth  before  going  to  the  mines,  for  how  could 
he  leave  her  behind?  And  to  take  her  with 
him  to  the  mines  was  out  of  the  question.  As 
he  kissed  her  good  night  he  set  his  lips  to 
gether  more  firmly  than  ever,  laughing  his  old 
metallic  laugh,  which  always  meant  the 
achievement  of  his  ends,  the  victory  of  self- 
will. 


98 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHAT  a  skin  she  has!     Clear 
and  pink  like  the  inside  of 
Pedro's  most  beautiful  shell. 
My  cheeks  are  yellow  as  a 
gosling's     breast  -  -  yellow, 
yellow — they   never   can   be   like   la    Senor- 
ita's."     Cousin  Esteban  smiled  with  what  a 
light  in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  at  her!" 

Francisca  uttered  the  words  half  aloud, 
in  plaintive  Spanish,  tears  welling  up  into 
her  eyes  as  she  held  the  lamp  before  a  smalt 
looking-glass  that  hung  over  her  table.  Lean 
ing  closer,  her  cheeks  almost  against  the 
glass,  she  gazed  deprecatingly  for  one  long 
moment,  then,  lamp  in  hand,  went  out  into 
the  sala.  It  was  silent  and  cold.  Presently 
there  was  a  rustle  in  her  aunt's  room.  She 
slipped  over  to  the  door. 

Dona  Sacramento  was  carefully  deposit 
ing  Esteban's  gift  in  one  of  San  Jose's  tiny 

99 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

silk  pockets.  Her  countenance,  that  fifteen 
minutes  before  had  been  livid  with  anger, 
was  smiling  and  bland,  and  the  wild  light 
had  left  the  deep-sunken  eyes.  Making  the 
sign  of  the  cross  she  turned  and  came  out  of 
the  room. 

Francisca  was  moving  quickly  toward  the 
kitchen.  "Come,  nina,  I  have  put  your 
uncle  to  bed,  we  must  get  some  supper,"  said 
Dona  Sacramento,  following  the  girl. 

"Esteban  is  a  good  boy  after  all,  alas! 
that  he  does  not  believe  in  the  blessed  teach 
ings",  whined  Dona  Sacramento,  putting  a 
pan  of  frijoles  on  the  fire,  while  Francisca 
laid  the  cloth.  "La  Americana  has  a  devil", 
she  continued.  "I  saw  it  in  her  eyes." 

"Oh,  tia  mia,  how  can  you  say  so,  and  she 
so  beautiful?"  said  Francisca  reproachfully. 
The  thought  of  Ruth's  radiant  hair  and  sun 
ny  eyes  for  the  instant  forcing  the  girl  to 
lose  sight  of  herself. 

"When  I  declared  that  she  was  no  Catho 
lic,  Esteban  did  not  deny  it,"  persisted  Dona 
100 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Sacramento,  placing  a  dish  of  frijoles  before 
Francisca  and  sitting  down  herself  to  a  cup 
of  pinole. 

"Mark  what  I  say,  from  this  night  on, 
your  cousin  is  under  her  spell.  He  will  be 
wax  in  her  hands;  she  will  lead  him  to  de 
struction — a  white  woman,  a  she-devil,  your 
cousin  loves.  Mark  you,  he  will  give  me  no 
more  money  for  the  blessed  San  Jose."  She 
stirred  the  pinole  absentmindedly,  looking 
into  the  fire  where  the  mesquite  twigs  blazed 
and  crackled. 

"Why,  tia  mia,  how  do  you  know?  Didn't 
Esteban  give  you  money  tonight,  more,  too, 
than  ever  before?"  boldly  questioned  the 
girl. 

"Yes,  yes,  girl,  but  it  is  the  last." 

"Don  Felin,  my  beloved  father,  who  was 
killed  by  the  Apaches,  had  second  sight  and 
I  am  like  him.  One  night  as  he  sat  by  the 
fire  he  said  suddenly  in  a  voice  that  drew  us 
at  once  to  his  side,  'Roberta  is  dead.'  The 
next  day  the  word  came  that  at  the  very 

101 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

moment  my  father  had  uttered  the  words 
Roberta  had  died.  My  brother  was  thirty 
miles  away  and  we  had  not  known  that  he 
was  ill.  Many,  many  times  I  have  predicted 
and  it  has  come  to  pass." 

But  exhausted  by  her  rage  of  the  after 
noon,  Dona  Sacramento  had  almost  dropped 
to  sleep,  her  head  had  fallen  to  one  side  of 
the  high-backed  chair,  and  the  nervous  eye 
lids  drooped. 

During  her  aunt's  speech,  Francisca's  eyes 
kept  growing  larger  and  brighter.  The 
frijoles  were  untouched  and  the  girl,  draw 
ing  up  to  the  fire,  sat  gazing,  now  into  her 
aunt's  sinister  face,  now  at  the  fantastic 
figures  in  the  mesquite  wood.  For  the  first 
time  in  her  life  Francisca  was  thinking — put 
ting  two  and  two  together,  planning  to  act 
for  herself.  Dona  Sacramento  was  now  fast 
asleep. 

The  young  girl  rose  softly  and  went  up  to 
Don  Dolores'  room.  Peacefully  as  a  little 
child  the  old  man  slept,  a  smile  on  the  pale 
102 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

handsome  face.  Francisca  crossed  the  room 
noiselessly  to  a  heavy  chest  of  drawers.  Don 
Dolores  turned. 

"You  love  Francisca,  you  would  give  it  to 
her,  tilito,"  whispered  the  girl,  looking 
toward  the  bed,  "you  love  her  very  much." 

As  she  emphasized  the  words,  the  lock 
snapped  in  a  small  box  which  she  had  lifted 
from  an  upper  drawer.  There  lay  an  old 
leather  wallet,  Francisca  opened  it  as  fast  as 
her  nervous  fingers  would  permit.  No  money 
was  in  it,  alas !  Nothing  but  a  shining  black 
curl,  tied  with  a  bit  of  red  ribbon.  One  day 
long  ago,  Don  Dolores  had  shown  it  to  her. 
It  was  her  own  baby  curl !  Tears  rushed  to 
her  eyes,  tears  of  shame  and  disappointment. 
Swiftly  returning  the  box  and  glancing  a  sec 
ond  time  toward  the  sleeper,  she  stole  softly 
out  of  the  room. 

Going  into  the  kitchen  she  saw  that  her 

aunt  slept  soundly.     Back  through  the  sala, 

the  candle  flickering  in  her  hand,  she  entered 

Dona  Sacramento's  room.     Among  the  rows 

103 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

of  wax  saints  was  one  farthest  away  from  San 
Jose,  whom  Francisco  had  often  noticed  her 
aunt  ignored,  rarely  dropping  money  into  his 
silken  pocket.  With  her  slender  hands  clasped 
and  eyes  dilated,  Francisca  approached  the 
inviolate  altar.  Prostrating  herself  before 
the  dignified  San  Jose,  too  frightened  to  pray 
aloud,  her  lips  moved  for  a  moment — a  sup 
plication,  the  pathos  and  significance  of  which 
only  her  tempted  young  soul  knew.  Then 
reaching  forward,  she  drew  forth  from  the 
neglected  saint's  pocket — fifty  cents. 

The  candle  sputtered  as  Francisca  crept 
stealthily  back  into  the  sala.  Wrapping  a 
black  shawl  about  her  head,  she  went  out  into 
the  patio.  At  the  sound  of  her  footstep,  a 
dog  barked  loudly.  Francisco  rushed  toward 
the  kennel,  unfastened  him,  patting  his  head 
and  whispering,  "Be  quiet,  Viento  it's  only 
Francisca." 

The  great  fellow  leaped  to  her  breast,  lick 
ing  her  beautiful  hands  and  delightedly  walk 
ing  with  her. 

104 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Out  along  the  highway  that  wound  in  and 
out  between  the  foot-hills,  she  moved  like  the 
wind,  until  she  reached  the  village  of  Luicito, 
three  miles  distant  from  the  rancho. 

It  was  dark  when  she  entered  the  main 
street.  The  apothecary's  windows  were  light 
ed  by  dull,  kerosene  lamps  and  within  the 
shop  it  was  gloomy  and  ill-smelling.  Doc 
tor  Vejar  was  not  there.  Anxious  and  impa 
tient,  Francisca  walked  to  a  door  at  the  back 
of  the  shop. 

Suddenly  above  a  small  showcase  filled  with 
tobacco  and  shells,  peered  a  frowsy,  red  head, 
and  a  boyish,  dumpy  figure,  chuckling  and 
grinning,  came  forward. 

"Good  evening,  Francisca,  Vejar  is  in  at 
his  supper.  It's  a  long  time  since  we've  had 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  in  town,"  and  the 
fellow  turned  red  and  began  to  pat  Viento. 

"Oh,  you're  here,  Pedro.  I  want  to  see 
Doctor  Vejar  very  much,  I'm  in  a  great  hur 
ry,  perhaps  you'll  give  it  to  me,"  said  Fran 
cisca  coloring  slightly. 

105 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"The  change-drawer  is  locked.  I  never 
wait  on  customers,  Vejar  won't  let  me,"  re 
plied  Pedro. 

"You  never  wait  on  people,"  despairingly 
repeated  the  girl,  "I'm  in  a  great  hurry." 

A  glance  at  Francisca's  face  and  Pedro  had 
leaped  over  the  counter. 

"If  it  isn't  for  medicine,  I  might  perform 
the  ceremony.  What  is  it  you'll  have?"  he 
asked  encouragingly  as  he  began  mimicking 
old  Vejar,  whose  well-known  habit  was  care 
fully  to  dust  both  scales  and  counter  before 
serving  a  customer. 

In  spite  of  her  anxiety  Francisca  broke 
into  a  smile  at  the  perfection  of  Pedro's  mi 
metic  art. 

While  the  young  fellow  with  the  merriest 
twinkle  in  his  watery  blue  eyes  said  graciously, 
"And  now  my  dear  Senorita,  I  hope  I  can  ac 
commodate  you." 

"Pedro,  really  I'm  in  a  great  hurry.  I 
want  a  box  of  powder." 

For  once  in  his  life  Pedro  Dugan  was 
106 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

dumbfounded.  Unwillingly  opening  the  show 
case  he  took  out  three  boxes  and  pushed  them 
toward  the  girl.  Then  he  leaned  back  against 
the  shelves  earnestly  eyeing  her. 

The  fellow  had  known  Francisca  from 
childhood.  Old  Vejar  and  Don  Dolores  were 
friendly.  Pedro  had  played  frequently  with 
Francisca  at  the  rancho.  He  had  always 
thought  her  the  most  beautiful  of  creatures 
and  her  olive  cheeks  faultless.  The  Irish- 
Mexican  hated  white  girls. 

"How  much  is  this  one?"  asked  Francisca, 
reaching  him  one  of  the  gay  boxes. 

"It  is  fifty  cents,"  replied  Pedro,  "fifty 
cents  too  much  for  ruining  those  beautiful 
cheeks  of  yours." 

Francisca  heeded  not  the  compliment,  but 
handed  him  the  smallest  box,  casting  a  re 
gretful  glance  at  the  one  first  selected. 

"There's  little  difference  in  the  cost,  they 

all  run  high,  and  the  cheap  stuff  has  poison 

in  it."     Pedro  read  the  box  lid:  "  'Suprema 

Face  Powder.     Invisible.     Harmless.     Pink. 

107 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Used  and  endorsed  by  the  most  refined  ladies 
in  private  and  public  life.'  This  is  forty 
cents." 

"I'll  take  it,  and  be  quick,  Pedro,"  said  the 
girl. 

Awkwardly  wrapping  the  box  and  giving 
her  ten  cents  from  his  pocket,  Pedro  escorted 
her  to  the  door. 

"Good-night,  Pedro.  Come  Viento,"  and 
Francisca  hurried  away. 

It  was  now  late,  and  as  she  left  the  town 
behind,  the  highway  was  unfrequented  and 
lonesome.  Fear  never  entered  the  young 
girl's  mind  until  she  turned  a  foot-hill  where 
a  road  led  off  to  the  campo  santo.  At  that 
moment  Viento  gave  a  sharp  bark  and 
sprang  forward  toward  a  shambling  figure. 

"It's  only  me,  Francisca,"  called  the 
cheery  voice  of  Pedro.  I'm  going  to  El 
Socorro  to  stay  all  night  with  the  Japs  and 
go  fishing  for  abalones  in  the  morning.  I'll 
fetch  you  back  one."  He  turned  in  the  oppo 
site  direction. 

108 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"Good-bye,"  answered  Francisca,  drawing 
her  shawl  more  closely  and  hurrying  around 
the  wall  of  hills,  running  breathlessly,  Viento 
at  her  heels. 

"Poor  girl!  poor  girll"  compassionately 
murmured  Pedro,  standing  still  for  an  in 
stant,  then  following  Francisca  at  a  safe  dis 
tance  until  she  reached  the  rancho.  After 
wards  he  sauntered  back  to  Luicito,  now  and 
then  taking  off  his  sombrero,  and  rubbing  his 
bushy  head  as  though  he  would  solve  some 
mystery. 

Pedro  Dugan  was  the  offspring  of  a  lusty 
Irish  sailor,  whose  vessel  had  once  passed  a 
month  in  the  harbor  near  Luicito.  During 
this  time  Dugan  had  found  an  opportunity 
to  frequent  old  Vejar's  shop  and  to  betray 
the  Californian's  only  child,  a  simple-mind 
ed,  homely  Mexican  girl,  then  only  fifteen. 

Francisca  softly  entered  the  house.  Peep 
ing  into  the  kitchen  she  saw  that  her  aunt  still 
slept  soundly.  Francisca  never  disturbed 
Dona  Sacramento's  naps.  Lighting  a  lamp 
109 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

she  retired  to  her  cheerless  room. 

On  a  rude  table  under  her  looking-glass 
was  a  collection  of  abalone  shells,  most  of 
them  the  gifts  of  her  play-fellow  Pedro.  She 
selected  the  most  beautiful  one;  it  was  a 
warm  pink  inside.  Looking  at  it  studiously, 
she  opened  the  box  of  powder  and  began  cov 
ering  her  face  with  the  soft  cosmetic. 

When  she  had  finished,  the  face  in  the 
glass  was  streaky  and  ghostly,  wholly  un 
satisfactory  to  Francisca.  Going  over  to  her 
basin,  she  impatiently  washed  the  powder 
off,  disappointment  in  every  movement.  Then 
blowing  the  lamp  out,  she  rolled  herself  in  a 
blanket  and  soon  dropped  off  to  sleep,  tears 
of  vexation  wetting  the  pillow. 


no 


CHAPTER  VII 

'"^T      T"OUR  sister    is    very  well  again, 
^^/         Miss  Ruth,"  began  Rodman  one 
day  while  Ruth  and  he  were  ar 
ranging    the    draperies    in    the 
deep    windows    of  the   ranch- 
house. 

"Yes,  she  is  another  person.  I  often  look 
at  her  unable  to  believe  she  is  the  sister  whom 
I  brought  to  California  a  year  ago.  She  is 
not  only  well,  but  new  life  is  in  her,  all  the 
querulousness  and  morbidity  have  vanished" 
—Ruth  caught  herself,  "I  don't  mean  to  say 
that  Carolyn  was  of  this  disposition  naturally, 
illness  and  nervousness  make  us  all — " 

"Totally  depraved,"  suggested  Rodman 
laughing.  "I  used  to  despise  all  mankind, 
when  I  was  particularly  ill  with  the  asthma. 
It's  a  marvelous  climate — this!  Curing  peo 
ple  of  their  mental  as  well  as  of  their  physical 
ailments.  Are  you  certain  that  the  climate 
in 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

has  been  the  only  doctor?" 

,     Rodman   glanced  straight   from   his  little 

blue  eyes  into  Ruth's. 

A  look  of  astonishment  mingled  with  hu 
mor  suddenly  lighted  her  face.  Putting  the 
scissors  on  the  window-ledge  and  folding  her 
hands  in  her  lap,  she  said  quietly,  "You  would 
better  ask  Carolyn  herself,  Mr.  Rodman." 

He  gazed  at  her  intently.  "Is  this  the  first 
time  that  it  has  occurred  to  you  that  I  love 
your  sister,  Miss  Ruth?" 

"Yes— no,"  replied  Ruth  hesitatingly,  "the 
truth  is,  Mr.  Rodman,  I  have  been  at  sea 
about  the  matter  for  a  long  time ;  your  ques 
tion  brought  me  into  port." 

Rodman  stepped  forward,  seizing  her 
hand. 

"Miss  Ruth,  your  sister  is  a  difficult  person 
to  approach.  I  have  not  yet  offered  myself; 
just  how  I'm  going  to  do  so  is  a  grave  ques 
tion.  Now  and  then  your  sister  has  given  me 
a  bit  of  encouragement,  but  it  has  been  so 
slight  that  I  can't  climb  toward  her  upon  it 
112 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

any  more  easily  than  a  mouse  could  reach  a 
shelf  by  a  spider's  web." 

As  he  finished  his  sentence,  Rodman  set  his 
slender  Manila  cane  down  vehemently  upon 
the  hard  wood  floor  and  took  his  hat  from  the 
window  seat. 

At  this  juncture  Miss  Carolyn  entered.  A 
smile  fluttered  on  her  thin  lips,  as  she  handed 
the  morning  paper  to  Mr.  Rodman. 

Reddening,  he  moved  toward  her,  the  cane 
swaying  and  breaking  beneath  his  hand. 
"Good  morning,  Miss  Carolyn,  you  see  how 
heated  our  conversations  become,  I  believe 
I've  broken  my  valuable  new  cane."  Placing 
a  chair  for  Carolyn,  he  looked  down  at  his 
cane.  "It's  really  broken,  and  I  haven't  writ 
ten  yet  to  thank  Miss  Locke  for  it." 

Ruth  took  the  splintered  pieces  in  her 
hands.  While  she  and  Rodman  bent  over 
them  trying  to  put  them  together,  neither  one 
noticed  the  pallor  that  came  over  Carolyn's 
face. 

Rodman  continued,   "Miss   Locke   is   the 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

teacher  in  the  Luzon  schools  to  whom  I  sent 
a  trifle  for  her  young  savages.  The  woman 
was  so  grateful  that  she  has  been  sending 
me  little  presents  ever  since.  This  came  the 
other  day.  She  writes  a  remarkably  inter 
esting  letter,  by  the  way." 

"If  you  will  let  me  have  it  a  moment,  I 
think  my  glue  will  mend  it  perfectly,  even 
these  splinters,"  and  taking  the  cane  from 
Rodman,  Ruth  left  the  room. 

"Are  you  not  feeling  so  well  today?"  so 
licitously  inquired  Rodman,  noticing  Caro 
lyn's  white  face. 

"Yes,  I'm  perfectly  well,"  she  quickly  re 
plied.  "I  suppose  I  ought  not  to  work  so 
long  over  the  flowers." 

"You  should  not  lean  over  those  beds  at 
all;  really  you  mustn't  do  it  again,"  said 
Rodman,  coming  over  to  her  chair  and  plac 
ing  his  hand  authoritatively  on  the  back. 

Carolyn  drew  up  her  slender  figure  in  pro 
testation,  and  raised  her  shapely  hand  to  her 
face,  as  though  to  adjust  the  faultless  folds 
114 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

of  her  hair,  but  to  hide  the  flush  overspread 
ing  her  cheeks. 

"I  supposed  that  Mexican  case  would  ap 
peal  to  you,"  she  said,  turning  abruptly  and 
picking  up  the  newspaper  from  the  table  by 
her  side. 

Carolyn  read  aloud  the  pathetic  account 
of  the  unjust  accusation  of  a  Mexican,  who 
was  about  to  be  convicted  of  the  crime  of 
murder.  A  Mexican  lawyer,  reading  of  the 
case,  had  insisted  upon  a  new  trial. 

"I've  been  following  that  for  days.  The 
thing  from  beginning  to  end  is  an  inexcusable 
outrage,"  said  Rodman. 

In  his  intensity  Rodman  almost  forgot 
himself.  Leaning  over  her  chair  he  tenderly 
drew  her  light  shawl  about  her  shoulders 
and  took  the  newspaper  from  her  hand. 
"My  dear  Miss  Hastings,  I  beg  you  not  to 
tire  yourself  reading  aloud  to  me,  let  me  fin 
ish  the  article,"  and  sitting  down  by  her  Rod 
man  read  on. 

"The  jury  brought  in  a  verdict  of  murder 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

in  the  first  degree;  the  sentence,  life  impris 
onment,  and  the  prisoner  himself  had  not 
understood  one  word  of  his  trial!  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  anything  more  preposterous? 
The  poor  fellow,  Grijalva,  I  believe  is  his 
name,  told  the  Mexican  lawyer  that  he  knew 
nothing  about  the  killing,  had  never  seen 
the  murdered  man  in  his  life,  and  that  he 
was  perfectly  innocent.  Think  of  a  panel  of 
jurors  declaring  the  man  guilty  simply  be 
cause  he  is  a  Mexican,  and  the  man  who 
stabbed  the  American  is  a  Mexican!" 

Throwing  down  the  paper  Rodman  turn 
ed  to  Carolyn.  "What  do  you  think  of  it, 
Miss  Hastings?  It  seems  to  me  it  is  time 
that  something  was  being  done  to  expose  the 
criminal  carelessness  and  indifference  of  our 
courts — something  without  delay." 

"Doubtless,"  responded  Carolyn.  "It  is 
pathetic  that  he  doesn't  understand  English. 
But  these  Mexicans  are  a  very  unreliable  set 
of  people.  Everyone  tells  me  that  their  word 
cannot  be  depended  upon  at  all.  I  must  con- 
116 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

fess  to  feeling  little  interest  or  sympathy 
toward  them.  They  have  always  seemed  to 
me  a  degenerate  race.  That  man  Ybarrando 
is  the  only  good  specimen  I  have  met,  and  he 
is  an  exception,  I  am  confident.  But  between 
him  and  myself  I  feel  a  difference,  a  chasm 
as  wide  as  the  sea  itself." 

"Pshaw!"  exclaimed  Rodman.  "It's  all 
prejudice  based  upon  the  fact  of  his  skin 
being  olive  instead  of  white.  It's  nothing 
deeper  than  this.  I  have  conversed  with 
Ybarrando  for  hours  at  a  time,  and  he  has 
more  mind,  more  thinking  power  and  origin 
ality  than  any  Harvard  graduate  I  know." 

Rodman's  manner  was  so  sweeping  and 
assured  that  Carolyn  was  put  on  her  mettle. 

"I  said  that  he  is  an  exception.  But 
toward  the  majority  I  feel  much  as  I  do 
toward  a  Chinaman,"  returned  Carolyn. 

"And  how  do  you  feel  toward  a  China 
man?"  directly  demanded  Rodman. 

Carolyn  glanced  up  disdainfully.  "How 
do  I  feel?  Why,  I  feel  superior,  above  him 
117 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

in  race  and  in  development." 

"We  haven't  gone  so  very  far  in  advance 
of  Confucius  and  Brahmanism  as  one  would 
suppose." 

Deliberately  drawing  from  his  pocket  a 
note-book,  Rodman  said,  "Listen  to  this, 
Miss  Hastings,  as  an  example  of  ancient 
Egyptian  ethics :  'Not  a  little  child  did  I  in 
jure.  Not  a  widow  did  I  oppress.  Not  a 
herdsman  did  I  ill-treat.  There  was  no  beg 
gar  in  my  days;  no  one  starved  in  my  time. 
And  when  the  years  of  famine  came  I  plow 
ed  all  the  lands  of  the  province  to  its  north 
ern  and  southern  boundaries,  feeding  its  in 
habitants  and  providing  them  food.'  Now 
and  then  I  like  to  read  this  over,  comparing 
it  with  the  modern  competitive  spirit." 

"As  to  the  Mexican,"  continued  Rodman, 
"you  must  not  forget  that  he  is  the  offspring 
of  one  branch  of  the  Caucasian  people — the 
Spaniard;  and  that  behind  him  rises  also  a 
civilization,  Aztec,  or  whatever  it  may  be 
called,  hinting  of  a  culture  and  development 
118 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

which  in  some  respects  were  comparable  to 
that  of  the  old  Egyptians." 

Rodman  rose  to  go. 

"A  visit  to  old  Mexico  would  open  your 
eyes,  Miss  Hastings.  They  are  a  splendid 
people,  with  a  repose  and  courtesy  that  we 
should  do  well  to  emulate." 

Looking  out  into  the  sunny  patio,  he  went 
on.  "When  one  realizes  that  barely  fifty 
years  ago  this  entire  country  belonged  to  the 
Mexicans  or  Californians,  as  they  preferred 
to  be  called;  that  they  dwelt  here  on  their 
vast  ranches  in  patriarchal  style,  owning 
leagues  of  land  and  thousands  of  horses  and 
cattle,  entertaining  stranger  and  friend  alike 
with  a  lavish  hospitality  unexampled;  and 
that  now  these  people  are  practically  exter 
minated,  it  is  one  of  the  most  pathetic  race- 
tragedies  in  history." 

As  he  finished  his  dissertation,  Ruth  re 
turned,  holding  the  cane  carefully  in  her  fin 
gers. 

"I  think  it  will  hold  well.  I've  mended 
119 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

ever  so  many  things  with  this  glue,"  she  said, 
as  Mr.  Rodman  took  it  from  her. 

"Ah !  Miss  Ruth,  you  are  my  good  angel. 
I  wouldn't  have  broken  that  little  cane  for  a 
great  deal,"  and  he  began  to  examine  it. 
"It's  beautifully  done,  thank  you  heartily." 

The  two  women  followed  him  to  the  ve 
randa. 

"I've  tired  your  sister  to  death  haranguing 
on  my  old  hobby  the  Race-question,"  said 
Rodman  looking  anxiously  toward  Miss  Hast 
ings. 

"I'm  not  at  all  tired,  but  fear  that  I  shall 
never  see  with  your  eyes.  Black  is  black  and 
white  is  white;  there  is  an  insurmountable 
difference,"  insisted  Carolyn  as  Rodman 
walked  away. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Ruth  went  up  to  her 
sister's  room,  the  upper  chamber  formerly  oc 
cupied  by  Don  Dolores.  Carolyn  had  eaten 
no  luncheon  and  had  said  that  she  wanted 
to  rest  and  to  be  alone.  Ruth  ventured  to 
knock  and  a  petulant  voice  said,  "Come." 
1 20 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"What  is  the  matter,  dear?"  asked  Ruth 
bending  over  Carolyn's  couch.  "You  are  not 
well  and  you  are  hiding  it  from  me.  Let  me 
send  Anita  for  the  doctor." 

"No,  no,  it's  nothing  serious.  I  must  have 
overdone  this  morning,"  replied  Carolyn, 
burying  her  face  in  the  pillows  and  sobbing 
quietly. 

The  talk  with  Mr.  Rodman  came  back  to 
Ruth,  something  told  her  that  neither  indis 
position  nor  neuralgia  was  now  the  cause  of 
Carolyn's  tears.  Had  Mr.  Rodman  pro 
posed,  and  had  her  sister  rejected  him? 

"Ruth,  why  are  you  so  interested  in  that 
Mexican  Ybarrando?  wailed  the  voice  from 
the  couch.  "You  and  Mr.  Rodman  are  ac 
tually  ill-balanced  upon  the  Race-question. 
That  Luzon  school  teacher  is  posing,  I  haven't 
any  idea  that  she  really  cares  for  those  Fili 
pinos,  her  letters  all  have  a  note  of  sentimen 
tality.  I  think  that  she  is  simply  forcing  her 
way  into  the  affections  of  Mr.  Rodman.  I 
wish,"  and  Carolyn  buried  her  face  deeper  in 
121 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

the  cushions,  "that  you  hadn't  mended  that 
cane  this  morning!" 

At  this  concluding  outburst,  both  women 
broke  into  a  laugh.  Carolyn's  was  hysterical 
and  mingled  with  tears;  Ruth's  full  of  amuse 
ment. 

"Carolyn,"  said  Ruth,  "the  idea  of  your 
being  jealous  of  a  little  old  New  England 
school-mistress,  who  is  sacrificing  her  last 
days  to  those  poor  children  in  Luzon,  fie !  fie ! 
But  tell  me,  dear,  is  it  true  that  Mr.  Rodman 
may  have  hope  ?  Now,  listen,  it  was  only  this 
morning  that  he  told  me  he  loved  you;  but 
was  timid  about  proposing  to  you." 

Carolyn  instantly  roused  herself,  her  gray 
eyes  brightening  and  her  shapely  white  fingers 
nervously  clutching  the  shawl.  "Ruth  dear 
est,  did  he,  and  what  did  you  say?" 

"I  told  him  that  he  must  not  ask  questions 
of  me,  but  come  directly  to  you,  or  something 
of  that  sort,"  and  the  younger  woman  put  her 
arms  soothingly  about  the  other's  neck. 

"Oh,  Ruth,  I'm  so  very,  very  happy,"  and 
122 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

sobbing  with  joy  Carolyn  arose  as  if  fresh 
vitality  had  been  put  into  her  limbs.  Walking 
across  the  room  to  the  dressing  table,  she  be 
gan  to  arrange  the  braids  of  her  thin  grayish 
hair. 

Carolyn  Hastings,  an  invalid  of  forty,  was 
in  spite  of  years  and  hypochondria,  a  hand 
some  woman.  Neither  medicines  nor  dietary 
regime  had  succeeded  in  destroying  the  trans 
parent  complexion  of  her  finely  featured  face ; 
and  her  large  gray  eyes,  limpid  and  oval, 
would  have  been  beautiful,  if  their  expression 
had  not  been  one  of  discontent  and  ennui. 
This  self-weariness  betrayed  itself  most 
strongly  in  her  voice,  which  was  always  quer 
ulous  and  sometimes  peevish.  A  slight 
spinal  trouble  made  her  conscious  of  her  fig 
ure,  and  had  emphasized  a  natural  stiffness 
of  bearing  into  almost  an  arrogance  of  man 
ner.  In  entering  a  room,  or  often  in  con 
versation,  she  had  a  habit  of  throwing  back 
her  head  after  the  fashion  of  a  finely  bred 
animal  about  to  go  on  the  track.  Carolyn 
123 


cultivated  exclusiveness.  From  the  style  of 
her  costly  garments  to  her  inclination  toward 
extremely  high  church,  she  was  fastidious. 

The  one  passion  of  her  life  was  her  love  for 
Ruth,  who  had  been  left  at  eighteen  months 
old  without  a  mother.  The  elder  sister,  then 
entering  into  womanhood,  took  the  mother's 
place.  Later,  Carolyn's  illness  and  long  years 
in  a  sanitorium,  had  separated  them. 

At  the  time  of  banker  Hastings'  death,  the 
invalid  Carolyn  came  back  home  to  live.  It 
was  the  making  of  a  new  acquaintanceship  — 
the  reunion  of  the  sisters.  In  intellectual  de 
velopment  Ruth  had  outstripped  the  elder 
woman;  Carolyn  resumed  the  duties  of  home 
life  with  all  the  ways  and  limitations  of  the 
invalid,  and  conducted  her  household  much 
after  the  plan  of  a  private  sanitorium.  Ruth's 
friends  pitied  her,  and  rejoiced  when  the  win 
ters  carried  her  away  from  the  quiet  home 
and  growing  responsibilities. 

Between  these  sisters  there  was  not  the 
usual  New  England  reserve,  at  least,  Caro- 
124 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

lyn  told  Ruth  all  her  thoughts.  Carolyn  had 
to  tell  somebody  her  thoughts.  Her  feeling 
for  Mr.  Rodman,  which  had  been  steadily 
growing,  was  less  of  a  feeling  to  her  because 
she  had  not  spoken  about  it  to  Ruth. 

But  since  the  time  that  Carolyn,  in  anger 
had  upbraided  Gerald  Woodbridge  for  his 
departure,  and  had  been  silenced  by  Ruth,  she 
had  been  cultivating  reserve. 

Today,  however,  the  flood-gates  of  Caro 
lyn's  pent  up  emotion  burst,  and  Ruth  laughed 
and  rejoiced  in  the  joy  of  the  invalid. 

Presently  Ruth  slipped  quietly  out  of  the 
room,  unobserved  by  Carolyn  self-absorbed 
before  the  looking-glass. 

In  the  deepening  twilight  she  went  out  into 
the  patio.  Under  the  datura,  where  she  and 
Lsteban  had  talked  a  month  ago,  she  sat 
down.  Carolyn's  joy  set  Ruth's  soul  astir. 
She  began  comparing  Rodman  and  Wood- 
bridge;  she  thought  of  Rodman's  boyish  fer 
vour  and  tried  to  remember  if  Woodbridge 
had  ever  been  so  ardent;  she  wondered  at 
125 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

herself  for  being  so  unrequiring  in  the  past 
and  questioned  had  she  demanded  more, 
would  it  have  been  given  her.  An  inner  voice 
said  that  Woodbridge  was  not  in  possession 
of  that  for  which  her  heart  most  longed.  But 
she  would  not  give  birth  to  this  deadly  con 
jecture. 

All  day  a  dozen  Mexicans  had  been  clear 
ing  out  a  small  arroyo  behind  the  adobe. 
Esteban  had  come  out  to  pay  them  and,  re 
turning,  passed  by  the  ranch  house.  He 
longed  to  go  in,  but  could  find  no  provoca 
tion.  Suddenly  he  remembered  that  Miss 
Carolyn  must  be  told  that  the  painters  would 
be  there  the  last  of  the  week.  Going  into  the 
patio,  he  thought  he  heard  a  woman's  voice 
—a  sob?  Stopping,  he  turned,  and  would 
have  retreated;  but  something  in  the  sound 
stayed  him.  Esteban's  ear  was  familiar  with 
the  note  of  distress;  from  the  wild  things 
in  the  canons  and  mountains,  he  knew  well 
the  cry  of  dread  and  alarm.  This  sound  was 
ah  !  how  different  1  It  asked  no  relief,  it  was 
126 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

self-contained,  full  of  tragic,  human  pathos. 
He  came  a  step  nearer,  instantly  the  sound 
ceased,  and  moving  quickly  away,  Ybarran- 
do  went  into  the  house  by  way  of  the  garden. 

Young  Anita  opened  the  old  familiar 
door.  "Is  Miss  Hastings  at  home?"  he 
asked  in  Spanish. 

"Si,  Senor,"  and  the  girl  motioned  him  in. 

As  she  disappeared,  Esteban  stood  gaz 
ing  about  at  the  old  sala  that  had  been  trans 
formed  into  a  Boston  drawing-room.  For 
a  moment  his  eyes  were  blinded  and  the  ob 
jects  on  the  mantel  shelf  were  indistinct. 

"Senorita  Hastings  cannot  see  you,  but 
she  told  me  to  call  Senorita  Ruth,"  said  Ani 
ta,  as  she  turned  toward  the  patio. 

Fiercely  catching  her  by  the  arm  Ybar- 
rando  said,  "Wait,  do  not  go,  it  will  do  to 
tell  you." 

The  young  girl  darted  an  angry  glance  at 
him. 

"Say  to  Miss  Hastings  that  Senor  Ybar- 
rando  left  word  that  the  painters  would  be 
127 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

here  on  Thursday,  buenas  noches,"  and  be 
fore  Anita  could  respond,  Esteban  had  dis 
appeared. 

As  his  step  left  the  veranda,  Ruth  came  in 
from  the  patio,  with  flushed  face  and  lips  set 
more  bitterly  than  ever. 

"Senorita  Ruth,"  said  Anita,  "Senor 
Ybarrando  was  here  to  say  that  the  painters 
would  be  here  on  Thursday." 

It  was  Esteban  Ybarrando's  footsteps 
then,  that  she  had  heard  in  the  patio.  Ruth 
sat  down  before  the  little  fireplace  and  wait 
ed  for  Carolyn  to  come  to  dinner.  The  mag 
azine  in  her  hands  lay  unopened,  uncut;  her 
mind  turned  doggedly  away  from  her  own 
gnawing  grief  to  the  Mexican  in  his  poverty 
and  loneliness;  her  thoughts  grew  vivid  and 
her  sympathies  alive,  as  looking  about  the 
sala,  she  recalled  the  appearance  of  the  room 
the  evening  she  had  come  there  with  Este 
ban.  Not  a  vestige  remained  of  the  original 
belongings;  it  was  so  elegant  and  comfort 
able,  so  American,  and  unlike  the  simplicity 
128 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

and  bareness  of  the  old  room. 

"He  must  despise  it  all,"  she  said  to  her 
self.  "I  wonder  he  can  endure  being  about 
the  place.  It  seems  a  sort  of  presumption 
for  us  to  be  living  here;  only  money  makes 
it  ours,  it  is  theirs  by  right,"  and  in  her  heart 
she  longed  to  make  some  reparation. 

During  dinner  Carolyn  said,  "Ruth,  I 
think  that  we  are  allowing  Senor  Ybarrando 
to  make  too  many  changes.  The  rent  we 
are  paying  is  almost  nominal.  We  should 
pay  for  having  the  painting  done  ourselves." 
Ruth  caught  eagerly  at  the  suggestion  and 
wrote  to  Esteban  in  the  morning. 


129 


I 


CHAPTER  VIII 

visit  of  Esteban  and  la  Ameri 
cana  to  la  Piedra  Blanca  rancho 
resulted  disastrously  to  the 
Ybarrando  household.  The  next 
morning  Dona  Sacramento  did 
not  get  up  at  the  usual  hour.  At  last  ven 
turing  into  her  room,  Francisca  found  her 
aunt  fast  asleep.  She  spoke  to  her,  whisper 
ed  closely  at  her  ear,  yet  there  was  no  re 
sponse.  She  lay  very  still.  Dona  Sacramen 
to  had  never  looked  so  pale. 

The  girl  alarmed  ran  out  into  the  patio, 
where  she  met  Pedro,  who  had  come  to  bring 
the  promised  shell.  Following  Francisca 
back  into  the  house,  he  glanced  at  the  stark 
figure  of  the  old  Dona  and  fled  from  the 
room  in  terror. 

"Don't  you  know,  Francisca,  that  Dona 
Sacramento  is  dead!"  cried  Pedro  in  awe- 
stricken  tones,    "and   you   here   alone!"   he 
130 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

added. 

"Pedro,  Dona  Sacramento  can't  be  dead. 
Only  last  night  she  sat  here  and  talked.  Run 
for  Doctor  Vejar,  he  will  know,"  said  Fran- 
cisca  in  Spanish. 

Pedro  looked  scornfully  at  her.  "Vejar 
can't  do  anything.  I'll  go  for  the  priest. 
Come  along  with  me,  can't  you?"  and  Pedro 
cast  a  superstitious  glance  at  Dona  Sacra 
mento's  door. 

"Leave  tilito !  no,  Pedro  Vejar,  I'm  not 
afraid.  Go  at  once  and  bring  Doctor 
Vejar,"  and  abruptly  leaving  him,  Francisca 
went  back  into  the  adobe  and  upstairs  to  see 
if  Don  Dolores  were  awake. 

Doctor  Vejar  said  that  Dona  Sacramento 
had  broken  a  blood  vessel  at  the  base  of  the 
brain  and  that  death  had  been  painless. 

The  sudden  death  of  his  wife  and  the  re 
moval  from  the  rancho  to  his  son's  small 
house  in  the  city  had  had  a  serious  effect 
upon  Don  Dolores.  He  had  lost  the  use  of 
his  left  limb  and  was  sometimes  almost  help- 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

less. 

Francisca,  his  sister's  child,  had  been  de 
votion  itself  on  the  rancho,  but  the  gaiety  of 
the  city  turned  the  young  girl's  head — the 
close  life  grew  irksome.  Only  her  affection 
for  her  uncle — an  instinct  from  childhood, 
and  her  growing  passion  for  Esteban,  made 
life  endurable. 

Two  or  three  evenings  of  the  week  and  on 
Sunday,  Esteban  came  to  see  Don  Dolores. 
He  gave  his  brother,  Julio  Ybarrando, 
money  both  for  his  father  and  for  Francisca, 
and  he  always  brought  Francisca  something. 

The  tie  of  blood  was  strong  with  the 
Ybarrandos.  Esteban  loved  his  cousin. 
Francisca's  extraordinary  beauty  could  not 
pass  unnoticed  by  the  dullest,  least  suscept 
ible  of  the  other  sex.  Now  Esteban  was 
neither  dull  nor  wanting  in  susceptibility;  he 
was  blind  to  this  woman  because  another 
woman's  face  was  always  before  him,  yet 
now  and  then  he  found  himself  admiring 
her;  one  day  as  they  sat  by  Don  Dolores' 
132 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

chair,  he  caught  himself  gazing  intently  at 
her.  The  grace  of  her  slender  shoulders, 
the  outlines  of  her  piquant  face,  the  droop 
of  the  long  dark  lashes  as  she  sat  over  the 
bit  of  drawnwork,  charmed  him.  The  fas 
cination  was  momentary. 

Often  Francisca  sang  to  Don  Dolores, 
sometimes  it  put  him  to  sleep.  Of  late  the 
songs  had  been  plaintive,  wild  Spanish  songs. 
Had  Esteban  been  responsive  he  might  have 
noticed  that  the  innocent  look  was  gone 
from  the  wide  brown  eyes. 

Julio  Ybarrando  had  assisted  with  the 
nursing  of  his  father,  but  he  had  been  called 
north  to  oversee  one  of  the  great  ranchos. 
Esteban  was  obliged  to  find  someone  to  re 
lieve  Francisca.  Young  Pedro  Vejar  had 
come  to  the  city  and  was  making  an  uncer 
tain  livelihood  at  selling  shells.  Esteban 
came  upon  him  one  day  and  engaged  him  as 
night  nurse  for  Don  Dolores. 

Joy  overflowed  the  Irish-Mexican's  heart 
at  the  thought  of  living  so  near  the  peerless 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Francisca.  Vejar  was  glad  to  have  him  ac 
cept  this  new  position,  glad  because  of  the 
wages  it  would  bring,  and  glad  to  have  out 
of  his  sight  Pedro — the  ever  present  re 
minder  of  his  unfortunate  daughter. 


Several  weeks  had  gone  by  since  Pedro 
had  taken  up  his  new  duties.  Old  Vejar  sat 
in  his  shop,  his  keen  black  eyes  riveted  upon 
the  evening  paper. 

For  the  seventh  time  he  had  read  one  item 
under  official  news — The  Grijalva  Trial. 

Grijalva  was  one  of  the  myriad  peons  se 
cretly  shipped  over  the  border  for  the  South 
ern  Pacific  Railroad  Company.  In  the  past 
few  months  Vejar  had  been  looking  up  this 
business.  He  discovered  that  the  peons  were 
outwitted  on  every  hand  and  underpaid.  Fol 
lowing  them  to  the  Company's  store,  he  had 
seen  that  short  measure  and  meanest  cloth 
ing  were  supplied  to  them. 

Tonight  the  situation  was  grievous.  Gri 
jalva  was  sentenced  to  a  living  death,  and 

'34 


there  was  every  proof  of  his  innocence.  All 
that  there  was  to  connect  him  with  the  killing, 
was  the  fact  that  the  night  the  murder  was 
committed  a  policeman  had  come  upon  Gri- 
jalva  half  asleep  in  a  doorway  with  a  knife 
on  his  person ! 

As  Vejar  read  and  reread  the  facts,  several 
Mexicans  had  strolled  into  the  shop,  taking 
possession  of  the  stray  stools  and  chairs  near 
the  counter. 

Vejar's  shop  was  a  rendezvous  for  the  dis 
affected.  In  the  rude  chamber  over  the  shop 
there  was  always  a  cot  ready  for  an  unfortun 
ate  brother  Mexican. 

"The  Lawl"  hissed  out  Vejar,  "we  know 
what  the  Law  will  do,"  and  Vejar  looked  up 
from  his  newspaper,  pausing  to  be  sure  that 
he  had  the  ears  of  his  small  audience. 

"You  recollect  what  the  Law  did  with 
Lobo  the  Portugese,"  he  sneered  in  Spanish. 
"That  proved  once  for  all  what  an  American 
judge  will  stoop  to"- 

"Go  on,  Vejar,  let's  have  it  all,"  cried  Pe- 

'35 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

rez,  speaking  for  his  companions,  who  slowly 
smoked  away,  their  dark  eyes  fastened  upon 
Vejar. 

Coming  from  behind  the  counter  Vejar 
walked  up  and  down  before  the  company,  ges 
ticulating  and  pulling  his  fingers  until  they 
cracked. 

"This  case  is  similar,  only  much  worse. 
Grijalva  can't  speak  or  understand  a  single 
word  of  English.  He  did  not  know  what  the 
court  was  saying  when  his  petition  for  a  new 
trial  was  denied.  He  did  not  know  what  was 
going  to  happen  to  him  when  they  motioned 
him  to  stand  up,"  and  Vejar  laughed  de 
risively. 

The  group  was  now  intent  and  eager. 

In  the  dimly  lighted  shop,  Vejar's  heavy 
figure  looked  portentous.  He  had  a  long  head 
and  closely  cropped  black  hair.  His  neck  was 
short  and  bovine  and  his  skin  was  dark — 
almost  black.  Moorish  blood,  not  Indian, 
coursed  through  his  veins,  as  excited,  revenge 
ful,  he  leaned  for  a  moment  against  the  parti- 
136 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

tion — the  incarnation  of  festering  malignity. 

"An  appeal  may  be  taken!"  Vejar  lifted 
his  eyebrows  and  grinned  sardonically  at  his 
fellow-Mexicans. 

"I  haven't  watched  these  American  inter 
lopers  all  these  years  for  nothing,1'  he  went 
on.  They  hav7e  succeeded  in  killing  off  all 
the  old  families  and  now  they're  commenc 
ing  on  the  peons.  Thieves  and  murderers  the 
whole  pack  of  them !  Take  yonder  Ybar- 
rando  rancho.  Not  one  foot  of  the  land 
is  in  the  family  today,  yesterday  the  last  acre 
was  sold  to  some  people — a  man  by  the  name 
of  Rodman.  They  rented  the  place  for  a 
year,  then  decided  to  buy  the  old  adobe — one 
of  the  best  preserved  in  the  country.  They 
paid  a  song  for  it,  knowing  it  was  worth  twice 
as  much.  Mortgages  and  unjust  lawyer's  fees 
have  wiped  out  the  thirty-two  thousand  acres. 
A  few  years  ago,  the  Southern  Pacific  gob 
bled  a  big  slice  and  never  paid  Don  Dolores 
a  single  penny.  The  old  man  has  often  told 
me  how  they  opened  a  quarry  on  the  rancho, 

137 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

and  never  gave  him  a  dollar  for  the  stone  they 
took  out,"  as  Vejar  finished  his  voice  trem 
bled  with  vindictiveness. 

Going  to  the  counter  he  began  doling  ciga 
rettes  to  the  men  as  they  passed  out.  They 
continued  talking  of  the  Grijalva  case,  Perez 
declaring  that  a  Mexican  didn't  begin  to  have 
the  hearing  that  a  Chinaman  has,  and  that 
Grijalva  would  be  condemned  undoubtedly. 

As  the  last  Mexican  disappeared  Pedro  Ve 
jar  came  into  the  doorway. 

"Julio  Ybarrando  came  down  for  the  night 
and  they  let  me  off,"  said  Pedro  as  his  grand 
father  expressed  surprise  at  seeing  him. 

"It's  a  good  thing,  perhaps,  for  Julio 
Ybarrando  and  his  family  that  the  rancho 
has  been  sold;  and  you'll  get  better  pay  now, 
Pedro,"  said  Vejar  in  Spanish  as  he  put  the 
lamps  in  the  window. 

"The  paper  says  it  went  for  two  thousand. 

It  was  worth  twice  as  much  with  that  adobe, 

which  will  last  for  another  hundred  years. 

Don  Benignio  built  most  of  it  with  his  own 

138 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

hands.  I  remember  when  the  old  man  lived 
there.  I  seem  to  have  been  dreaming  a  bad 
dream  ever  since.  Don  Benignio  was  the 
grandfather  of  Julio  and  Esteban.  He  came 
from  the  city  of  Mexico,  had  been  an  Indian 
trader,  traveled  as  far  east  as  Kansas  and 
knew  fifteen  different  Indian  dialects.  His 
wife  was  a  Spanish  girl,  the  daughter  of  old 
Don  Ricardo  Preciado.  She  owned  all  the 
land  for  leagues  about  here.  Today  her 
grandchildren  are  as  poor  as  you  and  I  are." 

Vejar  opened  a  door  in  the  partition,  be 
hind  which  were  two  cots. 

"I  understand  that  one  of  the  ladies  at  the 
ranch-house  is  going  to  marry  the  Superinten 
dent  where  Esteban  works.  He's  the  same  one 
who  struck  oil  on  the  rancho.  They  say  he  is 
worth  millions,  has  large  mines  in  Mexico. 
The  evening  paper  says  that  he  leaves  for 
Sonora  tomorrow.  They've  got  the  bubonic 
plague  there ;  pity  a  lot  of  these  Gringos  don't 
take  it  and  die  off  like  rats!"  With  this 
venomous  thrust,  Vejar  dropped  off  to  sleep. 
139 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Pedro,  always  dumb  when  Vejar  spoke, 
had  undressed  and  tumbled  into  his  cot.  But 
the  young  fellow  could  not  sleep.  He  was 
planning  how  he  might  raise  money  enough 
to  buy  a  certain  breastpin  for  Francisca.  He 
had  heard  her  tell  of  one  that  she  had  seen  in 
a  shop  window. 

Pedro  thought  Francisca  very  restless;  he 
didn't  like  to  see  her  running  out  of  nights 
with  the  American  girls;  she  was  rarely  with 
out  the  white  chalk  on  her  face  these  days  — 
such  were  the  thoughts  that  jumbled  them 
selves  together  in  the  never  too  clear  brain 
of  the  simple-hearted  Pedro  as  at  last  he  fell 
asleep. 

The  two  young  people  had  lately  had  many 
a  happy  hour  together  by  the  chair  of  old 
Don  Dolores.  The  girl  Francisca  was  as 
great  and  beautiful  a  mystery  to  Pedro  as  the 
blessed  Virgin  herself, — only  so  much  more 
adorable;  for  the  Holy  Mother,  beautiful  as 
she  was,  couldn't  joke  and  talk  as  did  Fran 
cisca. 

140 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"I've  become  quite  a  rustler,  Pedro,"  said 
Francisca  one  evening,  gliding  swiftly  into 
Don  Dolores'  room  to  say  good-night  to  him 
before  she  went  out  to  a  dance  in  Sonora- 
town. 

"I've  got  the  promise  of  a  job,  no  cheap 
John  business  either,  a  real  lady's  job,  in  a 
tailor's  shop  uptown,  where  they  make  suits 
for  the  bon  ton-senoritas,"  and  flaunting  her 
pretty  head  before  a  small  looking-glass  she 
adjusted  her  large  white  hat,  from  which 
floated  pink  satin  ribbons. 

His  mouth  wide  open,  Pedro  sat  stunned. 

"A  job!"  he  ejaculated  after  a  moment. 
"There's  no  need  that  I  can  see,  of  your  go 
ing  out  in  them  Jew  shops  to  wait  on  las 
Gringos,  you're  needed  here." 

Francisca  was  slowly  buttoning  up  her  long 
white  glove,  "Now  don't  tell,  Pedro,  promise 
me,  and  I'll  let  you  bring  me  home  tonight 
and  then  tell  you  more  about  it.  I  must  meet 
the  man  who  wants  me  to  work,  so  I  must 
hurry,"  and  stooping  over,  she  gently  kissed 
141 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Don  Dolores,  who  sat  half  asleep  with  eyes 
closed. 

The  grace  and  beauty  of  the  girl  and  the 
mellifluous  tones  of  her  voice  were  a  pathetic 
contrast  to  the  bold  looks  and  coarse  slang 
that  she  had  acquired  since  she  had  come  to 
the  city. 

Day  by  day  Francisca  longed  to  be  free. 
She  was  greatly  pleased  when  her  little  cousin 
Esperanza  relieved  her  in  the  forenoons  so 
that  she  might  take  the  work  at  the  tailor's. 
She  was  careful  that  Esteban  should  know 
nothing  of  this;  as  for  Don  Dolores,  he  sat 
in  a  stupor  most  of  the  time,  unconscious  of 
the  life  going  and  coming  about  him. 

Francisca  received  a  fine  return  for  her 
work,  which  was  the  fitting  of  jackets  and 
coats.  Half  of  her  money  she  gave  to  her 
cousin,  the  rest  she  used  for  finery  to  adorn 
herself  when  she  went  out  in  the  evening. 

On  Pedro's  return  to  the  city  he  related  to 
Francisca  all  the  news  that  Vejar  had  drop 
ped. 

142 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"Your  uncle  ought  to  have  gotten  twice 
as  much  for  the  old  place,"  said  Pedro  look 
ing  sympathetically  at  the  girl. 

Francisca  made  no  comment,  and  appeared 
to  take  little  interest  in  what  he  was  saying 
until  he  happened  to  mention  the  fact  of 
Woodbridge's  departure  for  Sonora ;  then  she 
became  suddenly  eager  and  began  asking  all 
sorts  of  irrelevant  questions,  that  Pedro  could 
not  answer.  The  next  night,  when  he  came 
on  duty,  Pedro  was  further  mystified.  Fran 
cisca  drew  him  into  the  alcove  by  the  window, 
and  said  very  deliberately,  "Pedro  I'm  going 
to  watch  tonight,  I  want  you  to  do  something 
for  me,  will  you?"  and  she  leaned  over  him 
enticingly. 

"We  hate  los  Americanos,  don't  we?"  she 
asked  as  preliminary. 

Pedro  nodded  assent  and  Francisca  went 
on  in  Spanish. 

"They  steal  our  lands,  they  take  our  houses 
for  nothing ;  they  insult  us  to  our  faces — they 
call  themselves  'white  people' ;  the 

143 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

men,  nice  American  men  won't  look  at  us"- 

At  this  Pedro  burst  forth  — "The  pale  vil 
lains!  they  had  better  not" 

"Be  quiet,  Pedro,  be  quiet  and  listen  to  me. 
I  want  to  play  a  bad  joke  on  that  man  who  is 
in  love  with  Miss  Hastings.  Let  us  write 
him  a  letter  that  will  scare  him,  telling  him 
cousin  Esteban  loves  her.  It  will  make  him 
want  to  kill  Esteban,  but  he  won't  be  able  to; 
for  listen,  Pedro,  now  listen,  you  are  to  give 
the  note  to  him  as  he  is  already  on  his  way 
to  Mexico.  You  can  do  it — only  listen  to 
me,"  and  she  sat  down  on  the  rug  near  Pe 
dro's  chair  with  a  sheet  of  paper  on  her  lap 
and  began  to  con  over  something  that  \vas 
written  in  Spanish. 

Pedro's  eyes  grew  merry,  and  he  chuckled 
softly  to  himself.  What  better  proof  could 
he  have  of  Francisca's  liking  for  him  than 
her  permitting  him  to  enjoy  such  a  fine  joke 
on  Esteban,  of  whom  he  had  been  jealous 
these  many  years?  Esteban  would  lose  his 
job  when  Woodbridge  got  back.  Good  for 
144 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

him !  What  right  had  he  hanging  around  los 
Gringos? 

Francisca  handed  the  carefully  written 
sheet  of  paper  to  Pedro.  "Now  Pedro,  dear, 
make  this  into  English  and  write  it  in  your 
handsome  letters.  I'll  read  it  slowly  to  you," 
and  she  repeated  in  her  soft  voice : 

"Apreciable  Caballero: — Con  su  permiso 
me  torno  la  libertad  de  abrir  los  ojos  un 
amante.  Las  circustancias  me  han  propor- 
cionado  hacer  conocimiento  la  Senorita  Hast 
ings  que  sin  duda  esta  calificada  por  todos  los 
que  la  conocen  de  hermosa  y  con  todos  los 
prendos  de  education  y  talente*  que  la  caract- 
eriza. 

"Bien  su  protejido  Ybarrando  un  desco- 
nocido  Mejicano  esta  perdida  de  amor  por 
ella.  Manifesta  la  mayor  deferencia  hacia  la 
bonita  joven;  y  aun  roba  para  hacerle  rega- 
los. 

"No  sera  estrana  que  se  casen  a  desapa- 
rescan  uno  de  estos  dios.  Mi  opinion  esque 
es  unperdonable  en  una  senorita  que  esta  com- 
145 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

prometida  y  un  joven  que  deve  a  Ud  tantos 
favores. 

"Esperendo  que  Ud  ponga  termino  a  estas 
iniquidades  lo  mas  pronto  posible. 

"S.  S.  S.  Misterio." 

When  she  had  finished  reading,  both 
laughed  aloud,  "You're  a  good  one  Francisca, 
cute  enough  to  be  a  detective.  "I'll  get  you  a 
silver  star,"  said  Pedro  in  Spanish. 

"A  beautiful  composition!  I  must  teach 
you  the  English,"  and  taking  the  paper  from 
her,  he  set  diligently  to  work  translating.  Pe 
dro's  training  in  the  priest's  school  stood  him 
in  good  stead  at  this  critical  moment;  and 
his  Irish  gift  in  the  use  of  large  words  never 
availed  him  better.  As  he  labored  over  the 
translation,  endeavoring  to  compass  the  elon 
gated  Spanish  sentences  into  the  concise  Eng 
lish,  the  perspiration  stood  out  on  his  freckled 
face  and  his  bright  necktie  crept  over  his  col 
lar.  He  wrote  clearly  in  immense  flourishes, 
carefully  shading  every  letter. 
146 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

While  Francisca  waited,  she  impatiently 
tapped  her  foot  on  the  rug,  and  once  got  up 
and  walked  to  and  fro  before  her  uncle's 
chair,  glancing  anxiously  toward  the  clock.  At 
last  she  went  out  into  the  hall  and  got  Pedro's 
big  black  hat. 

"It's  done,  and  a  good  job  I've  made  of  it 
too,"  and  Pedro  held  up  the  large  sheet  of 
paper.  "Let  me  read  it  over  to  you" : 

"Dear  Sir, — With  your  permission,  I  take 
the  liberty  of  opening  the  eyes  of  a  lover. 
Circumstances  have  placed  me  in  the  position 
of  becoming  acquainted  with  Miss  Hastings, 
who  without  doubt  is  qualified  by  all  who 
know  her  as  very  beautiful,  with  all  the  ac 
complishments  of  education  and  talent. 

"Your  dependent  Ybarrando,  an  unknown 
Mexican  is  dead  in  love  with  her.  He  shows 
all  deference  toward  the  lovely  young  lady, 
even  steals  to  make  her  presents. 

"It  would  not  be  a  wonder  that  they  would 
get  married  or  disappear  one  of  these  days.  I 
am  of  the  opinion  that  it  is  unpardonable  in 
147 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

a  young  lady  who  is  engaged,  and  a  young 
man  who  is  indebted  to  you  for  so  many  fa 
vors. 

"Expecting  that  you   will   put   an  end  to 
these  iniquities  as  soon  as  it  is  possible, 
"Your  devoted  servant, 

"Mysterio." 

As  he  finished,  Francisca  seized  the  paper 
and  putting  it  hastily  in  an  envelope,  handed 
Pedro  his  hat.  "Now  you  must  run,  Pedro, 
and  catch  the  next  car.1' 

"I  want  something  first,"  he  replied,  plant 
ing  himself  stolidly  before  her,  looking  sheep 
ishly  into  her  eyes. 

She  let  the  awkward  fellow  reach  up  and 
kiss  her,  quickly  brushing  her  cheek,  as  he 
stumbled  out  into  the  narrow  dark  hall  and 
down  stairs. 

"Go  through  all  the  cars,  and  don't  miss 
him,  Pedro,  I'll  never,  never  forgive  you  if 
you  do !"  she  whispered  loudly  to  him  as  he 
closed  the  door. 


148 


CHAPTER  IX 

WOODBRIDGE     and     Rodman 
had    very    little    in    common. 
Born  in  the  same  community, 
belonging  to  the  same  social 
set,  educated  at  the  same  uni 
versity;    yet   they   did    not   speak   the    same 
language  of  the  heart.     Woodbridge's  west 
ern  experience  may  have  had  something  to  do 
with   this  uncongeniality;    but  even   if  their 
lives  had  been  spent  closely  together  in  Bos 
ton,  their  paths  must  have  been  very  diver 
gent.      Propinquity  and  place  cannot  bridge 
over  the  abysses  of  the  spirit. 

It  would  take  something  more  than  his 
union  with  the  sister  of  Woodbridge's  be 
trothed  to  induce  Rodman  to  like  Wood- 
bridge.  He  felt  it  his  duty  to  tell  him  at  once 
of  his  engagement  to  Carolyn  Hastings,  and 
of  their  intended  marriage  at  the  holidays. 
This  brought  Rodman  to  Woodbridge's  of- 
149 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

ficc.  It  was  noon  of  the  day  that  Wood- 
bridge  would  leave  for  Sonora.  He  had 
spent  the  morning  giving  orders  to  Ybarran- 
do,  and  the  two  men  were  starting  out  to 
luncheon  when  Rodman  appeared. 

"I  thought  that  I  might  have  fifteen  min 
utes  with  you,  I'm  sorry  to  disturb  you  at  all, 
but  I  have  something  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
about  of  great  importance — importance  to 
me  at  least,"  and  the  elderly  gentleman's  face 
broke  into  a  boyish  smile. 

Looking  up  quizzically  and  putting  some 
papers  into  his  pocket,  Woodbridge  said, 
"Glad  to  see  you  Rodman,  just  wait  until  I 
show  Ybarrando  the  combination  of  this  new 
safe." 

"Ha!  he  is  making  you  his  confidential  sec 
retary?"  said  Rodman,  greeting  Ybarrando, 
and  standing  in  the  doorway,  his  back  turned 
while  the  two  men  discussed  this  point,  and 
that  number. 

Ybarrando  went  off  quietly  and  as  he  disap 
peared,  Rodman  remarked,  "An  exceptionally 
150 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

fine  type  of  the  Mexican;  integrity,  faithful 
ness,  and  indomitable  pride  under  that  olive 
skin." 

"Yes,  he's  a  trusty  fellow,  I've  never  found 
in  him  the  slightest  crookedness,  accounts  per 
fect  to  a  penny.  He  has  a  lot  of  brain  too, 
digs  at  scientific  subjects  that  I'm  afraid  to 
touch.  This  morning  I  came  pretty  near  let 
ting  him  go  to  the  mines  instead  of  myself. 
He  wanted  to  go;  there's  likely  to  be  insu 
bordination  here  amongst  the  Americans;  they 
abominate  having  Mexicans  around  and  have 
worked  underhandedly  to  get  Ybarrando's  po 
sition.  Once,  I  sent  him  away  for  a  week  and 
took  an  American  in  his  place,  but  he  hadn't 
the  mind  to  accomplish  the  work  and  ran  off 
with  two  hundred  dollars  one  pay  day— that 
ended  the  matter.  I  took  Ybarrando  back, 
and  now  the  Americans  are  forced  to  respect 
and  obey  him.  He  is  faithful  as  a  dog." 

Woodbridge  drawled  the  last  sentence  in  a 
way  that  made  Rodman  frown.  Rodman  nev 
er  exacted  fidelity  of  anyone. 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"It  seems  to  me  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to 
send  him.  I  think  Miss  Ruth  could  urge  a 
good  case  in  favor  of  his  going,"  as  Rodman 
spoke  he  looked  keenly  at  Woodbridge. 

"Perhaps  I'm  particularly  sympathetic  just 
now;  for  I've  come  to  tell  you,  Woodbridge, 
that  Miss  Carolyn  Hastings  and  I  shall  be 
united  in  marriage  two  weeks  from  today,  and 
we  wanted  you  to  be  best  man.  Carolyn 
thought  that  her  sister  would  appreciate  this 
attention." 

"Too  bad,  too  bad,"  said  Woodbridge. 

"Too  bad  it  is  that  we're  getting  in  ahead 
of  you  and  Miss  Ruth,  isn't  it?  But  I  count 
this  the  most  important  act  of  my  life — one 
that  I  can't  procastinate.  It's  a  mystery  to 
me  how  you  and  Miss  Ruth  could  be 
engaged  for  five  years,  five  years  isn't  it?" 
asked  Rodman. 

"No  it's  seven  now,"  and  there  was  the 
faintest  note  of  disappointment  in  Wood- 
bridge's  voice. 

"Well  seven's  a  lucky  number,"  continued 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Rodman,  "perhaps  the  New  Year  will  see 
you  man  and  wife,  I  sincerely  hope  so.  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  Woodbridge,  I  don't  think 
that  Ruth  Hastings  has  her  equal ;  few  women 
would  have  endured  such  a  test." 

"We  have  not  put  it  off  of  our  own  ac 
cord,"  returned  Woodbridge  dryly.  Some 
how  one  circumstance  after  another  has  hin 
dered  us.  You  see  Rodman,  you're  differently 
situated.  I  have  had  to  work,  and  work  hard 
to  reach  this  point.  Of  course  I'm  comfort 
able  now;  but  five  hundred  thousand  is  a  bag 
atelle  when  one  can  make  his  millions  in  these 
Mexican  mines;  and  make  it  easily  too,  the 
only  requirement  being  a  man's  presence  now 
and  then,  and  a  good  slice  of  ready  money  to 
keep  things  going — yes,  I've  got  to  be  on 
hand,"  said  Woodbridge  emphatically. 

"I'm  really  sorry  that  you  won't  be  on  hand 
for  the  twenty- fourth,"  acquiesced  Rodman, 
who  had  recognized  long  ago  the  futility  of 
urging  Woodbridge  out  of  his  course. 

"The    twenty-fourth?"    said   Woodbridge 

153 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

evincing  a  little  interest,  "Why  I  believe  that 
was  the  day  that  Ruth  set  some  six  months 
ago  for  our  wedding,  I'm  not  sure,  it  may 
have  been  the  twenty-third,  it  was  to  be  about 
Christmas  time." 

As  he  talked  he  wrapped  a  second  cigarette 
in  his  long  white  fingers  and  quickened  his 
pace. 

"Come  in  Rodman  and  have  some  luncheon 
and  then  we  shall  both  go  over  to  the  ranch. 
I  planned  to  spend  this  afternoon  with  Miss 
Ruth." 

"Thanks,  I  have  an  engagement  to  meet 
Miss  Hastings  in  town  at  two  this  afternoon, 
and  must  be  off  at  once,"  and  the  usually  de 
liberate  Rodman  glanced  hastily  at  his  watch 
and  ran  toward  the  station. 

At  luncheon,  Woodbridge  remembered  that 
he  had  forgotten  some  important  papers,  and 
the  return  to  the  office  to  get  them  cost  him 
the  afternoon  with  Ruth.  He  missed  the  two 

o'clock  train  to  the  ranch. 
******* 

154 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Since  their  conversation  at  La  Concha 
months  ago,  Woodbridge  had  gone  into  the 
Kern  River  Valley  to  follow  up  some  oil  de 
velopments;  thus  postponing  his  trip  to  the 
mines  until  December,  and  making  it  impos 
sible  to  have  the  wedding  for  weeks  to  come 
—perhaps  months. 

Ruth  sat  waiting  for  him  on  the  sunny  ve 
randa.  This  latest  postponement  of  their  mar 
riage  had  gone  deeply  with  Ruth.  The  wom 
an's  nature,  first  patient,  self-suppressed,  al 
ways  palliative,  now  recoiled. 

This  afternoon  as  she  got  up  two  or  three 
times  to  speak  to  Carolyn  or  to  look  at  the 
clock,  there  was  something  defiant  in  her  man 
ner.  During  her  acquaintanceship  with 
Woodbridge,  she  had  had  a  way  of  imag 
ining  scenes  between  herself  and  her  lover- 
scenes  that  were  never  acted.  Ruth's  dra 
matic  instincts  had  found  no  incentive  in 
Woodbridge;  the  verve,  the  spirit  of  the  girl 
were  kept  at  bay.  In  his  presence  her  feeling 
was  scarcely  one  of  fear,  neither  was  it  one 
155 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

of  timidity;  it  was  more  that  of  powerlessness 
to  make  any  impression.  She  felt  toward  his 
petrifying  emotional  life  much  in  the  same 
way  as  a  physician  feels  toward  a  patient  with 
slow  paralysis. 

Today  she  was  playing  again  her  scene,  As 
she  walked  up  and  down  in  the  sunshine  on 
the  old  veranda,  she  had  never  seemed  more 
comely;  her  golden  hair  covered  her  with  its 
radiance  and  the  flowing  outlines  of  her  girl 
ish  figure  were  brought  into  relief  by  the  sim 
ple  white  dress,  but  the  little  hands  were 
clenched  and  the  sweet  brown  eyes  flashed 
with  indignation. 

Woodbridge's  quick  stride  startled  her.  She 
stood  still  and  her  color  came  and  went. 

"It's  a  great  shame,1'  he  said,  taking  out 
his  watch  and  putting  a  perfunctory  kiss  upon 
her  forehead.  "I  had  no  idea  that  I  should 
be  so  rushed;  but  you  know  how  it  is  at  the 
last  moment,  a  fellow  has  a  hundred  and  one 
things  to  do ;  unfortunately  I  had  to  go  back 
for  some  papers." 

156 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"Oh,  of  course,  I  know  how  much  you 
had  to  do,  I  ought  not  to  have  expected  you 
sooner,  it  was  rather  absurd  of  me,"  there  was 
anger  mingled  with  sarcasm  in  her  words. 

"It  really  couldn't  be  helped,  Ruth,"  re 
monstrated  Woodbridge.  "If  it  were  not  for 
that  Mexican  Ybarrando,  I  really  shouldn't 
be  able  to  go  at  all,  he  is  thoroughly  depend 
able — obeys  me  to  the  letter." 

"This  morning  Rodman  came  in  to  tell  me 
about  the  wedding.  So  he  has  bought  this 
old  adobe,"  Woodbridge  hit  the  thick  walls 
with  his  boot.  "Like  iron  isn't  it?  I  don't 
especially  admire  his  taste — no  conveniences, 
no  electric  lights  or  gas.  Just  like  Rodman, 
though — an  odd  fellow,  most  people  would 
call  him  a  crank.  By  the  way  Ruth,  I  told 
Ybarrando  to  come  over  now  and  then  on 
Sundays,  but  don't  let  him  bore  you." 

At  the  mention  of  Ybarrando's  name,  Ruth 
interposed  a  word, 

"He  never  bores  me.  I  like  him  very  much. 
But  I  should  think  it  would  make  him  unhap- 

157 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

py  to  visit  us  here,  when  they  once  owned  it 
all,  and  now  have  not  a  foot  of  ground  left." 

Woodbridge  laughed  impatiently.  "Ruth  I 
never  knew  a  woman  so  completely  given  over 
to  sentiment.  Why  these  Mexicans  will  do 
anything  for  a  little  money;  to  give  a  dance 
or  buy  a  horse,  they  think  nothing  of  selling 
off  an  acre  or  two.  All  the  grants  have 
gone  for  mortgages.  Ybarrando  and  his 
brother  are  like  all  of  them.  I  suspect  they're 
chuckling  at  the  offer  of  Rodman.  He  will 
be  the  poorer  for  the  bargain,  I  warrant 
you,"  and  Woodbridge  looked  deridingly  to 
ward  the  dilapidated  garden. 

There  was  a  combative  flash  in  Ruth's 
eyes,  but  only  for  an  instant — the  defeated 
look  settled  in  them  immediately.  It  was 
second  nature  to  succumb  to  Woodbridge's 
ideas — at  least  outwardly. 

"We  ought  to  be  talking  about  our  plans 

I  suppose,"  she  said,  feigning  a  gladness  of 

manner    and    throwing    a    pretty    glance    at 

Woodbridge,   as  she  crossed  over  the  ver- 

158 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

anda,  poising  gracefully  on  the  railing. 

From  the  steamer  chair  in  which  he  lazily 
stretched,  Woodbridge  looked  up  at  her. 
Ruth  was  undeniably  pretty,  her  figure  was 
developing  well,  and  every  detail  of  her  sim 
ple  dress  satisfied  his  critical  glance. 

"Our  plans,  Ruth?  There  isn't  anything 
new  to  say  about  them.  I'll  get  through  as 
quickly  as  I  can.  Come  now,  don't  take  my 
last  half  hour  for  discussion.  Sing  for  me," 
he  almost  gruffly  demanded. 

Ruth  winced.  This  last  half  hour  there 
were  so  many  things  that  she  had  wanted  to 
say.  As  usual  she  had  said  nothing. 

Going  into  the  sala,  she  sat  down  at  the 
piano  mechanically  turning  over  the  pages  of 
a  song.  Presently  her  voice  rose  in  sombre 
melody,  flooding  the  old  adobe,  echoing 
along  the  darkening  veranda;  her  head  bent 
lower  over  the  keys,  her  fingers  moved 
noiselessly;  the  contralto  notes  suited  the 
melancholy  music — her  hopeless  mood  was 
reflected  in  the  words  of  the  lyric. 

159 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"The  dinner  is  served,  Senorita  Ruth," 
said  Anita  coming  into  the  sala  from  the 
veranda  where  she  had  found  Woodbridge 
half  asleep. 

Woodbridge  had  piled  up  his  baggage 
and  was  sitting  down  to  read,  when  the  Pull 
man  conductor  came  up,  and  before  opening 
his  ticket  said,  "I've  got  a  note  here  for  a 
man  by  the  name  of  Gerald  Woodbridge." 

"I'm  the  person,"  said  Woodbridge  with 
surprise,  and  he  took  the  letter  which  Pedro 
Vejar  had  mysteriously  thrust  into  the  con 
ductor's  hand  as  the  Overland  was  moving 
out  of  the  station. 

The  conductor  passed  on,  and  the  passen 
gers  were  too  busy  settling  themselves  to  ob 
serve  the  expression,  first  of  annoyance,  then 
of  something  akin  to  amusement  that  crossed 
the  face  of  the  handsome,  taciturn  man  op 
posite  them,  as  he  hastily  scanned  the  letter. 
Slowly  putting  it  back  into  the  envelope,  a 
harsh  laugh  escaped  him,  and  nervously 
1 60 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

clutching  the  newspaper,  he  walked  forward 
into  the  smoker,  one  or  two  persons  turning 
to  follow  him  with  questioning  looks. 

Rolling  a  cigarette,  again  he  opened  the 
envelope  and  read  the  letter.  This  time  a 
bland  smile  settled  over  his  clean,  stern  face, 
and  his  smooth  chin  grew  firmer  than  mar 
ble. 

"A  woman's  at  the  bottom  of  this,  some 
Mexican  fool  I  I've  been  told  they  are  as 
jealous  as  Juno;  she  thinks  she  has  it  in  for 
Ybarrando."  The  whole  thing  began  to 
seize  him,  it  was  an  immense  joke!  and 
Woodbridge  wanted  to  laugh  outright.  "I'll 
not  be  over  anxious  about  my  Mexican  rival; 
why  'twas  only  this  morning  that  Ybarrando 
urged  me  to  let  him  go  to  the  mines." 

This  last  thought  was  conclusive.  Troub 
ling  himself  no  further  with  the  matter 
Woodbridge  soon  became  absorbed  in  the 
newspaper,  and  sat  up  late  into  the  night 
straining  his  eyes  over  some  calculations  con 
cerning  the  new  mines. 
161 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

It  never  once  occurred  to  him  to  interro 
gate  the  conductor  as  to  the  person  who 
brought  the  note;  in  fact  by  morning  the  epi 
sode  had  left  his  mind. 


162 


CHAPTER  X 

IT   was   brilliant   weather   during   these 
February  weeks  by  the  sea.     The  air 
was  deliciously  stimulating — there  was 
a  lustre  in  it — for  the  mountains  were 
still  white  with  snow;    overhead,  the 
sky  was  glowing;    the  winter  sea  burned — a 
lapis  lazuli;    and  across  the  bay,  already,  the 
yellow  primroses  sparkled  on  the  dunes. 

Ruth  loved  the  lonely  white  dunes  that  rose 
and  fell  for  miles  along  the  unfrequented 
shore.  Part  of  every  day  she  would  spend 
lying  in  the  warm,  clean  sand,  feasting  her 
eyes  on  the  illimitable  waters  that  lapsed  quiet 
ly  to  and  fro. 

Since  the  departure  of  Woodbridge,  she 
had  fallen  into  a  condition  of  apathy.  The 
wedding  roused  her;  but  when  it  was  over 
and  the  Rodmans  had  gone  on  their  wedding 
journey  to  the  City  of  Mexico,  Ruth  was  in 
a  state  of  desuetude.  The  old  habits  of  let- 
163 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

ter-writing,  of  practising,  of  reading  German, 
of  working  in  the  garden — all  ceased.  Wood- 
bridge  a  miserable  correspondenthimself,was 
requiring  about  her  letters.  Every  day  or  so, 
Ruth  wrote  to  him — but  there  was  nothing  to 
say — even  this  got  to  be  an  insurmountable 
task. 

Sunday  had  broken  fine  and  clear.  Crossing 
the  bay  early,  Ruth  threw  herself  listlessly  in 
a  covert  of  the  dunes,  feeling  that  she  would 
like  to  fall  asleep  and  never  waken  again.  It 
was  tranquilizing,  seductive — this  warm  south 
ern  sea  as  it  came  and  went,  breaking  in  white 
lines  of  smothered  foam;  she  ran  her  fingers 
through  the  hot  sands,  the  sun  burnt  her  face ; 
she  contrasted  the  southern  lanscape  with  her 
own  New  England  coast,  hurricane-swept,  im 
possible,  at  this  season  of  the  year. 

Nowadays  her  mind  moved  reluctantly, 
but  naturally  Woodbridge  came  into  her 
thoughts— he  was  always  there.  He  had  be 
come  cold,  implacable  as  that  far  away  east 
ern  shore. 

164 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

By  a  capricious  association  of  ideas  she 
suddenly  thought  of  Esteban  Ybarrando.  She 
wondered  if  the  Mexican  race  were  as  intense 
as  their  environment — the  world  that  lay  be 
fore  her;  she  would  like  to  know  more  about 
the  Mexicans — the  dark  skinned,  silent  people 
attracted  her.  She  questioned  why  Ybarran 
do  had  not  availed  himself  of  Woodbridge's 
invitation.  Mr.  Rodman,  much  to  Carolyn's 
surprise,  had  asked  him  to  the  wedding,  but 
he  did  not  come.  The  following  Sunday  he 
had  made  a  brief  call,  but  that  had  been  weeks 
ago. 

After  a  while  she  rose,  and  walked  slowly 
along  the  smooth  hard  beach,  turning  she 
saw  Ybarrando  coming  quickly  toward  her. 
His  face  lighted  up  and  he  put  out  his  hand. 

"They  told  me  that  I  should  find  you  here, 
Senorita." 

"I  am  happy  to  see  you,"  said  Ruth,  cor 
dially  shaking  hands  and  throwing  off  her  sad 
ness. 

She  had  never  seen  him  so  glad;  the  wont- 
165 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

ed  melancholy  had  disappeared,  his  gestures 
were  animated.  They  walked  along  the  beach, 
jesting,  talking,  Ruth  sat  down  at  last.  Gath 
ering  the  delicate  shells  that  strewed  the  shore 
like  fine  powder,  he  sprinkled  them  gaily  into 
her  lap;  once  he  flung  himself  at  her  feet,  and 
looking  seaward,  exclaimed,  "There's  some 
thing  besides  force  back  of  that!" 

"What  is  it  then?  Law,  I  presume  you 
scientists  call  it,"  returned  Ruth.  "We  who 
are  old-fashioned  call  it  God,  I  like  to  trans 
late  this  God  into  Beauty;  I  suppose  one 
might  go  on  and  add  Love,  if  one  could  trust 
in  Love.  Beauty,  the  idea  of  Beauty  is  a 
much  surer  thing  than  Love — Beauty  is  made 
sure  to  us  through  Art;  Love  necessitates 
persons,  and  one  can't  depend  upon  persons, 
can  he?" 

She  looked  away  from  him,  speaking  slow 
ly,  as  if  she  were  talking  to  herself. 

Esteban  glanced  up  timidly  at  her  tense 
features,  eager  for  her  voice,  her  meaning. 
Since  he  had  met  Ruth  Hastings,  persons  had 
1 66 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

become  a  very  certain  quantity  to  him;  his 
passion  for  her  the  most  positive  fact  in  his 
life. 

Turning  suddenly  upon  him,  an  expression 
interrogative,  beseeching,  in  her  eyes,  "Senor 
Ybarrando,  did  you  ever  love  anyone  a  long 
time,  yet  feel  certain  that  the  love  could  not 
be  returned?"  she  asked. 

He  did  not  start,  but  moved  a  little  away 
from  her.  She  had  broken  the  desert  silence 
of  his  soul;  put  his  secret  thoughts  into  words 
—the  sky,  the  sea,  the  dunes,  were  blazoned 
with  her  question.  Had  he  made  a  hideous 
mistake?  Had  he  spoken,  dared  to  betray 
his  love?  He  feared  to  look  at  her. 

Calmly  the  tide  flowed  in;  as  it  broke  in 
slow  music  at  their  feet,  Esteban  recovered 
himself  and  said  in  unsteady  yet  fervent 
tones,  "In  the  very  act  of  loving  one  has 
some  recompense — a  joy  that  no  one  can  take 
away,  no  one." 

"After  all  though,  it  really  isn't  love  if  it 
isn't  returned,"  continued  Ruth. 
167 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

At  this  moment,  they  were  interrupted  by 
the  approach  of  four  Mexicans.  Two  young 
girls  and  two  men;  the  girls  had  taken  off 
their  hats  and  sprigs  of  geranium  gleamed 
in  their  hair;  each  wore  about  her  shoulders 
a  small  circular  cape,  so  commonly  seen  on 
the  Mexican  girl — a  substitute  for  the  re- 
bozo;  one  of  the  men  carried  a  guitar.  They 
sauntered  leisurely  along  the  beach,  with 
something  of  the  unconsciousness  of  young 
animals. 

"How  modest  and  graceful  the  Mexican 
girl  is,"  commented  Ruth,  trying  to  divert 
her  mind.  "See  how  dignified  the  taller  one 
is!" 

Esteban  looked  a  second  time.  "Excuse 
me  a  moment,"  and  before  Ruth  could  reply, 
he  had  walked  up  hastily  to  the  group  of 
Mexicans. 

Drawing  the  handsome  girl  aside,  he  talk 
ed  quietly  to  her  for  a  few  moments. 

Ruth  recognized  in  the  lissome  figure,  Es- 
teban's  cousin,  young  Francisca.  She 
168 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

thought  her  beauty  more  striking  than  ever; 
but  she  hardly  liked  her  manner  toward  Es- 
teban.  He  was  remonstrating;  while  she 
laughed,  glancing  defiantly  after  him,  as  he 
returned  and  sat  down  again  by  Ruth's  side. 

Esteban  said  nothing,  but  looked  abstract 
ed  and  anxious.  After  a  while  Ruth  broke 
the  silence.  "One  sees  so  few  of  your  race 
in  California;  yet  seventy-five  years  ago  they 
were  the  only  people  here — the  masters  of 
the  soil.  Where  have  they  disappeared?" 

"Most  of  the  old  families  have  died  out; 
the  few  remaining  are  very  poor  and  exceed 
ingly  proud,"  replied  Esteban,  with  much 
feeling. — "I  know  of  several  instances  where 
the  person  has  died  of  poverty — died  rather 
than  disclose  his  misery.  My  father  has  one 
friend  now  in  the  insane  asylum,  his  mind 
wrecked  from  the  loss  of  his  land  taken  from 
him,  acre  after  acre,  by  an  American.  There 
are  hundreds  of  similar  instances;  in  fifty 
years  there  will  be  no  Mexicans  in  California 
—my  race  will  be  extinguished."  He  spoke 
169 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

hopelessly. 

"How  do  you  explain  this,  Senpr  Ybar- 
rando?  Contact  with  the  American  ought 
to  have  helped  you.  It  is  a  great  reflection 
upon  us,"  returned  Ruth. 

"Senorita,  the  Americans  despise  us.  We 
have  little  chance  in  the  eyes  of  the  law;  in 
politics  we  are  nothing;  except  in  one  or  two 
cases,  where  the  families  have  been  clever 
enough  to  keep  their  money,  we  are  unknown 
in  society.  Every  day  I  see  the  Mexican 
browbeaten,  insulted;  the  Americans  brush 
us  by  on  the  sidewalks,  in  the  cars,  as  though 
we  were  polluting  them." 

Ruth  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 
"Surely  you  are  prejudiced;  you  must  have 
suffered  more  than  others.  I  cannot  endure 
the  thought  that  all  Mexicans  feel  as  bitterly 
toward  us  as  your  feeling  would  betray." 

Esteban  looked  at  her  mournfully,  "Alas! 

Senorita,  if  it  were  only  one  or  two  who  feel 

as   I   do.     But   all   Mexicans   tell  the   same 

story.     As   a   family  we  have   not  suffered 

170 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

more  than  others.  Lands  mortgaged  away, 
or  overrun  by  ruffians  who  stole  our  horses 
and  burnt  our  wheat  fields;  later  great  tracts 
seized  by  the  railroads — today  we  have 
nothing  left — we  are  doomed!" 

"I  do  not  believe  there  should  be  one 
race,  one  civilization.  And  this  restlessness 
of  the  American,  this  greed  after  money,  I 
sometimes  feel  it  too !  As  a  race,  the  Mexi 
can  hasn't  it;  but  I  have  it,  I  am  seized  with 
it,"  and  Esteban  arose,  clenching  his  hands 
in  protest  against  this  Anglo  Saxon  inroad 
upon  his  spiritual  domain. 

"How  long  have  you  felt  this  distrust  of 
us?"  asked  Ruth. 

"Since  I  was  seven,"  he  quickly  returned. 
"It  was  then  my  father  had  to  pay  ten  thou 
sand  dollars.  Sheep-raising  was  the  prin 
cipal  enterprise  on  the  rancho.  For  several 
years  my  father  had  employed  an  American 
to  oversee;  finally  they  became  partners  in 
sheep-raising.  A  dry  season  came,  one  year 
—two  years — a  third — during  which  time, 
171 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

the  American  had  insisted  upon  my  father's 
taking  back  the  greater  part  of  the  stock- 
he  did  not  want  them  to  die  on  his  hands. 
Five  years  afterward,  the  American  brought 
a  case  against  my  father.  Every  witness  was 
perjured  to  declare  that  my  father  had  taken 
the  sheep  from  him  forcibly  and  owed  him 
ten  thousand  dollars  for  the  theft!  That 
was  the  beginning,  and  it  has  been  going 
from  bad  to  worse  ever  since." 

Ruth  got  up  and  they  walked  silently  to 
ward  the  lagoon.  She  could  not  speak.  Her 
»ense  of  justice,  her  sympathies  were  stirred 
to  the  utmost;  she  felt  her  heart  going  out  to 
Esteban  with  a  new  pity  that  she  did  not 
comprehend. 

While  he  made  ready  the  boat,  she  stood 
leaning  over  the  wharf  railing,  looking  off  to 
the  mountains  that  rose  behind  them  miles 
away;  their  bases  were  hidden  in  mists,  but 
the  snowy  summits  stood  forth  white  and 
aloof;  around  them  lay  the  green,  gleaming 
reaches;  the  crystal  note  of  the  meadow  lark 
172 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

fell  on  the  stillness — something  in  the  call 
of  the  bird  made  Ruth  fearless  and  free. 

"Senor  Ybarrando,'  'she  said,  sitting  down 
opposite  to  him  and  looking  into  his  dark, 
steadfast  face,  as  he  adjusted  the  oar-lock, 
"There  are  many  things  that  I  could  lose 
easily  enough  in  this  world — ambition, 
money,  position;  but  I  should  wish  to  die  if 
the  power  to  help  my  friends  were  taken 
from  me.  If  I  can,  let  me  bring  some  cheer 
and  brightness  into  your  life,  come  and  see 
me,  bring  your  books,  let  us  talk  together, 
let  me  be  your  friend,"  and  she  put  out  her 
hand. 

"Esteban  held  it  for  an  instant,  then  he 
rowed  rapidly  to  the  other  shore,  and  they 
walked  without  speaking  to  the  house.  Here 
he  broke  the  silence. 

"At  moments,  I  have  wished  to  die,  Sefi- 
orita.  My  first  gleam  of  hope  came  after 
meeting  you,  and  you  treated  me  with  con 
sideration — as  an  equal.  The  Mexican  has 
much  dignity,  I  would  not  talk  spitefully  of 
173 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

the  American,  I  only  tell  you  the  truth,  and 
but  half  of  that.  When  we  care  for  our 
friends  we  care  very  much  for  them;  we 
would  gladly  die  for  them — the  Mexican 
has  not  forgotten  how  to  love." 

It  was  not  alone  the  woes  and  grievances 
of  his  people  that  now  filled  his  soul.  Min 
gled  with  the  passion  for  his  race,  was  a 
more  profound  emotion — his  love  for  her. 
As  Ybarrando  spoke,  he  tossed  back  his  fine 
head  impatiently,  his  earnest  eyes  flashed, 
and  every  feature  was  firm  as  adamant. 
Abruptly  he  bade  her  good-night,  and  Ruth 
stood  there  in  the  twilight,  flushed  and  trem 
bling. 

On  his  way  home,  Esteban  eagerly  re 
hearsed  every  word  Ruth  had  said;  her 
piercing  question  came  back  to  him.  He  felt 
certain  that  she  was  unhappy  in  her  relations 
with  Woodbridge.  Again  returned  the  old 
longing  to  help  her,  and  with  it,  the  impos 
sibility  of  doing  so. 

He  sat  later  than  usual  over  his  experi- 
174 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

ment.  Each  bottle  contained  a  clear  liquid; 
as  he  slowly  poured  one  into  the  other,  the 
clear  liquid  changed  into  a  chalky,  then  into  a 
pink  mixture.  The  process  of  bringing  to 
gether  these  opposites — the  negative  and 
positive,  was  a  beautiful  pastime  to  the 
young  chemist.  But  tonight,  as  he  worked 
over  his  table,  a  finer  interpretation  came  to 
him — he  no  longer  saw  a  new  solution  in 
chemistry — in  the  lifeless  fluids  he  saw  his 
own  heart  rising  up  in  boundless  sympathy 
to  meet  the  American  girl  in  her  subtle,  ap 
pealing  grief. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ABOUT  ten  o'clock  the  following 
morning,  Esteban  looked  up 
from  his  desk  and  found  Ruth 
Hastings  with  frightened  r;yes 
standing  in  the  doorway  of  the 
office. 

"Have  you  not  read  it,  Senor  Ybarrando?" 
she  asked  excitedly,  giving  him  the  morning 
newspaper. 

At  the  sight  of  her  his  serious  face  bright 
ened  ;  but  he  grew  anxious  as  he  took  her  cold 
hand  and  noticed  her  ashen  face.  Leading 
her  trembling  to  a  chair,  he  brought  her  a 
glass  of  water.  While  she  drank,  she  kept 
her  eyes  fastened  upon  him — something  in  his 
presence,  his  quietness  of  manner,  calmed  her. 
Ybarrando  walked  to  the  window  and  read  : 

"Plague  in  State  of  Sonora. 

Dreaded  Disease   Makes  Its  Appearance   at 

the  Jesus  Maria  Mines. 

176 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Nogales,  State  of  Sonora.  (Mexico)  Feb. 
20. — Information  has  reached  here  that  the 
dreaded  bubonic  plague  has  made  its  appear 
ance  at  the  Jesus  Maria  Mines.  An  unknown 
white  man  came  to  the  camp  about  a  week 
ago,  and  was  immediately  taken  ill  and  rap- 
idl>  developed  symptoms  of  plague.  When 
questioned  the  man  admitted  that  he  was 
from  Mazatlan,  and  said  that  he  had 
managed  to  make  his  way  through  quar 
antine  line  without  much  trouble.  Ger 
ald  Woodbridge,  superintendent  of  the 
mines,  as  well  as  two  Mexican  miners, 
are  at  present  ill  and  it  is  feared  the  Asiatic 
scourge  has  attacked  them.  Physicians  have 
been  called  from  Hermosillo  and  nurses  from 
Nogales.  The  camp  is  deserted,  the  entire 
force  having  fled  when  the  disease  was  dis 
covered.  Close  quarantine." 

As  he  finished,  Esteban  turned  to  Ruth, 
but  she  did  not  allow  him  to  speak. 

"Senor  Ybarrando  I  must  go,  go  at  once 
to  the  mines.  I  have  come  to  ask  you  how  I 
177 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

may  reach  there  without  delay.  What  rail 
road  shall  I  take  and  how  do  I  make  the 
journey  after  leaving  Nogales?" 

Ybarrando  looked  at  her  in  dismay.  "Se- 
norita,  it  is  the  plague  — it  is  death!  You  must 

'  he  caught  himself—  "No  one  will  be 
permitted  in  the  camp;  already  it  is  quar 
antined  by  order  of  the  government,  as  are  all 
the  small  towns  where  it  has  broken  out." 

"What  is  this  to  deter  me?  I  have  never 
feared  contagion;  the  Mexican  Consul  will 
give  me  a  special  passport,"  recklessly  replied 
Ruth. 

"But  my  dear  Senorita  it  is  winter  there, 
the  season  of  snow  storms ;  the  trails  are  dan 
gerous,  perhaps  impassable  in  places,"  he 
spoke  now  without  reserve. 

At  this,  Ruth's  face  fell.  Then  suddenly 
she  said,  "How  do  the  doctors  and  nurses 
get  there?" 

"Perhaps  they  have  not  been  able  to  do 
so,  or  only  at  the  expense  of  great  hardship 
and  positive  risk,"  replied  Esteban. 
178 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"All  the  more  need  that  I  go.  Mr.  Wood- 
bridge  may  lie  there  at  this  moment  without 
care,  dying!  Sefior  Ybarrando  will  you  go 
along  with  me?"  she  asked  desperately. 

The  question  did  not  surprise  him.  Es- 
teban  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would 
go— go  in  her  stead  if  she  would  permit  him. 

"Senorita  Hastings,  I  shall  gladly  go,  go 
at  once  for  you — in  place  of  you,  if  you  will 
consent.  If  I  go  alone  I  could  reach  the 
camp  a  half  a  day  sooner— perhaps  a  whole 
day  if  the  snow  melts." 

Ruth  did  not  want  to  be  unreasonable;  but 
confidence  in  her  physical  strength  and  long 
years  of  devotion  to  Woodbridge  would  not 
let  her  swerve  in  her  determination. 

"Senor  Ybarrando  I  am  going  to  Mr. 
Woodbridge,  if  you  will  take  me.  The  train 
leaves  for  Nogales  tonight,  at  what  time?" 

"At  eight  o'clock  the  train  goes.     I  shall 
telephone  to  reserve  the  sleepers,"  was  all 
that  Ybarrando  said.     Crossing  the  room  he 
took  down  the  receiver. 
179 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

As  he  stood  waiting,  Ruth  considered  the 
request  she  had  just  made  of  this  man,  upon 
whom  she  had  no  claim  beyond  that  of  a 
year's  acquaintance,  which  within  a  few 
months  had  ripened  into  friendship.  Now 
she  was  demanding  that  he  risk  his  life  in 
order  that  she  might  go  to  Woodbridge. 
This  was  not  her  privilege;  she  was  presum 
ing  upon  his  generosity — how  could  she  ever 
repay  him?  To  jeopardize  her  own  life  was 
her  own  affair;  asking  another  to  risk  his, 
a  very  different  matter. 

She  got  up  and  walked  toward  him. 

"Sefior  Ybarrando  I  am  beside  myself,  I 
have  asked  a  favor  of  you  which  I  must  not 
allow  you  to  grant,"  and  she  looked  gravely 
into  his  face.  "Engage  but  one  sleeper,  I 
am  perfectly  equal  to  going  alone,  you  must 
not  go  with  me,  I  shall  get  on  well.  After 
I  reach  Nogales,  I  shall  wait  until  the  trail 
is  safe,  until  the  burros  can  go  without  risk. 
There  are  always  guides  who  would  be  glad 
to  go,  glad  of  the  money  that  I  shall  give 
1 80 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

them.  Mr.  Woodbridge  has  told  me  of  an 
old  Mexican  who  lives  in  Gabriela,  who  has 
been  a  guide  for  years." 

Patiently  Ybarrando  listened,  the  tele 
phone  interrupted  Ruth  several  times.  He 
rang  up  "central"  again  and  engaged  one 
sleeper  as  she  had  bidden  him;  then  he  walk 
ed  with  her  to  the  phaeton  without  speaking 
a  word,  his  face  wearing  a  sphynx-like  ex 
pression,  his  dark  eyes  beaming  with  stern 
joy  as  he  helped  her  into  her  seat. 

But  there  are  several  errands  that  I 
shall  ask  you  to  do  if  you  will,"  said  Ruth, 
taking  the  reins.  "If  you  would  go  to  the 
Consul  for  my  passport,  I'll  give  you  my  card 
with  the  privilege  to  sign  for  me,"  and  she 
took  one  from  her  bag  and  wrote  upon  it. 
"And  if  you  would  buy  my  ticket,"  she  con 
tinued,  "and  come  to  the  station  this  even- 
ing." 

"Yes,  Senorita,  I  will  gladly  do  all  these 
little  things  for  you.  Is  there  nothing  more?" 

"Yes,  please  tell  me  what  sort  of  clothing 
181 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

I  shall  need,  I  fancy  a  trunk  is  out  of  the 
question,"  and  a  smile  crossed  her  earnest 
face. 

"A  trunk  would  be  in  your  way,  in  the 
burro's  way,"  smiled  back  Ybarrando.  "But 
do  not  fail  to  wear  very  warm  clothing,  furs 
and  a  blanket,"  he  advised,  as  Ruth  turned 
her  horse  and  drove  rapidly  away. 

The  remaining  hours  of  the  forenoon  were 
hours  of  feverish  preparation  for  Esteban. 
Calling  in  John  Lane,  his  old  rival  and 
enemy,  he  told  him  that  Woodbridge  was  ill 
at  the  mines,  and  that  he  must  go  to  him,  and 
he  gave  Lane  a  check  to  pay  the  men  on  Sat 
urday. 

As  he  hurried  from  office  to  laboratory, 
more  than  once  he  caught  himself  in  a  mood 
of  exultation.  He  was  going  with  her,  going 
to  help  her,  going  to  save  her  from  death ; 
for  she  should  never  enter  the  plague-stricken 
camp !  Once  as  he  walked  out  to  a  sulphur- 
car  that  stood  on  the  siding  near  a  mustard 
field,  he  ran  and  caught  up  an  armful  of  the 
182 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

feathery,  yellow  blossoms,  thinking  to  carry 
them  to  her. 

Leaving  the  office  soon  after  noon,  he 
went  to  his  adobe  to  make  ready  the  neces 
sary  things  for  the  journey.  So  often  had  he 
taken  these  trips  to  the  mines,  that  knife,  can 
teen,  revolver,  and  other  articles  were  strap 
ped  heedlessly  together.  Then  he  looked 
about  his  bare  room;  perhaps  the  Senorita 
would  not  take  enough  to  keep  warm;  there 
was  his  old  scrape — faded  but  clean,  soft  and 
very  warm,  he  would  put  that  in  for  her.  But 
he  had  to  take  out  an  extra  flannel  that  he 
had  packed  for  himself,  to  make  room  for  it. 

Ruth  in  the  meantime  had  sent  Anita  into 
the  village  to  bring  her  old  Mexican  mother 
to  the  rancho;  and  through  Anita's  inter 
preting,  told  her  that  she  was  going  away 
for  a  few  days,  and  would  leave  the  house 
in  her  care;  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rodman 
were  expected  home  the  following  Sunday. 

She  left  a  long  note  of  explanation  for 
Carolyn;  then  gathering  together  clothing, 
183 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

shawls  and  wraps,  Ruth  took  an  early  din 
ner,  and  with  Anita's  assistance,  started  to 
the  city.  Finding  the  Pullman  window  al 
ready  open,  she  claimed  her  sleeper,  went 
into  the  car  and  sat  down  to  wait. 

A  dull  feeling  had  settled  over  her— a 
feeling  which  even  the  excitement,  conse 
quent  upon  the  hasty  resolve,  the  quick  ac 
tion,  could  not  down  —  a  portent,  vague,  yet 
none  the  less  persistent — that  she  was  going 
on  a  bootless  journey;  that  Woodbridge 
would  think  her  coming  unnecessary—that 
this  act  of  hers  would  be  ineffectual  to 
awaken  him.  Filled  with  these  morbid  fore 
bodings,  she  waited  for  Ybarrando. 

At  last  he  came  in,  and  going  quickly  to  her 
seat,  took  out  her  ticket,  his  hand  trembling, 
and  his  manner  distrait. 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  Ruth,  "see  what 
faith  I  have  in  you  to  start  on  my  journey 
without  my  ticket.  I  did  not  care  to  stand 
alone  in  the  station,  so  I  claimed  my  sleeper 
and  came  into  the  car  to  wait." 
184 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"I'm  sorry  to  be  late,  Senorita;  but  I  had 
to  say  good-bye  to  my  father."  As  he  spoke, 
the  train  began  to  move  certainly  out  of  the 
station  and  the  passengers  were  withdrawing 
their  heads  from  the  windows. 

"What  do  you  mean  Senor  Ybarrando?" 
exclaimed  Ruth  blankly. 

"I  am  going  with  you,  Senorita,"  he  replied 
"you  cannot  go  alone.  I  know  the  risks,  I 
know  that  it  is  impossible  for  you." 

His  voice  was  resolute,  but  his  eyes  were 
lowered;  he  dared  not  meet  her  disapproval. 
At  this  moment  he  would  not  have  encount 
ered  her  eyes  for  the  universe;  he  knew  that 
he  had  made  her  his  debtor. 

The  mystery  of  one's  self  is  the  greatest  of 
mysteries.  Ruth  Hastings  had  fully  made  up 
her  mind  that  she  did  not  want  Ybarrando 
to  go;  even  if  there  had  been  no  risk  in  his 
accompanying  her,  she  had  decided  that  she 
preferred  to  take  the  journey  alone. 

Yet  she  broke  forth  into  words  of  relief 
and  gratefulness.  "This  is  wholly  unexpected, 
185 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

nobly  generous  in  you,  Seiior  Ybarrando. 
There  is  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  to  be  gra 
cious;  I  can't  put  you  off  at  a  way  station.  It 
is  a  great  freedom  from  responsibility  to  have 
you ;  the  country,  the  people,  are  all  so  strange 
to  me,  and  I  did  dread  the  trail."  After  this 
admission,  Ruth  sat  back,  folding  her  hands, 
willing  to  let  Esteban  see  to  her  ticket  and 
make  her  comfortable. 

"Did  you  succeed  in  getting  a  sleeper?" 
she  inquired. 

"No,  yours  was  the  last  one,  but  I  shall 
not  mind  sitting  up  all  night,  there  will  be 
some  corner,  I  have  my  blankets,"  replied 
Ybarrando  contentedly.  A  little  later  he  bade 
her  good-night  and  went  into  the  smoking 
car. 

Ruth  did  not  close  her  eyes  until  midnight. 
Sitting  up  in  her  berth,  her  elbows  on  her 
knees,  she  watched  the  night  landscape,  the 
spring  world  illumined  by  moonlight.  It  was 
magical.  Orange  grove  after  orange  grove, 
gleaming  and  gold;  the  almond  blossoms 
186 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

spreading  canopies  of  silver;  and  ever  the 
steady  flight  of  the  train,  on,  on,  through  the 
enchanted  distances.  She  fancied  herself  the 
central  figure  in  the  fairy  tale,  being  conduct 
ed  by  the  lonely  knight  to  her  absent  lover  in 
the  purple  mountains.  Forgetful  of  conven 
tionalities,  unafraid  of  the  displeasure  of 
Woodbridge,  happy  to  have  Ybarrando  with 
her,  she  at  last  fell  asleep. 

When  she  wakened  in  the  morning  they 
were  in  the  desert  zone.  Life,  the  painful 
reality  of  the  situation  overcame  her.  Per 
haps  she  was  wrong  to  have  come ;  it  seemed 
to  be  involving  others.  Why  had  Ybarrando 
followed  her?  She  was  soon  dressed  and 
waiting  to  go  out  to  breakfast,  when  Esteban 
came  into  the  car,  the  bunch  of  mustard  in  his 
hands. 

"Good-morning,  Seiior  Ybarrando,  where 
did  you  get  it!  not  about  here?"  and  she  tried 
to  peer  out  of  the  dusty  window. 

"I  brought  it  along  yesterday,"  he  an 
swered,  fastening  the  long  sprays  over  her 
187 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

seat. 

Ruth  watched  him  with  appreciative  looks. 

The  train  stopped  for  twenty  minutes,  and 
they  went  out  and  breakfasted  together. 

"Ybarrando  could  gain  no  satisfactory  in 
formation  about  the  plague.  Brakeman,  con 
ductor  and  passengers  were  either  uninformed 
or  non-committal.  One  Mexican  miner  said 
that  there  had  been  a  case  at  the  Jesus  Maria 
Mines,  but  that  the  man  had  recovered;  he 
thought  it  might  spread. 


188 


CHAPTER  XII 

IT   was    seven    o'clock   in    the    evening 
when   Ruth  and  Ybarrando   reached 
Nogales.    The  town  of  Gabriela  was 
distant  a  two  hours'  stage  ride  and 
Ruth  preferred  to  continue  and  pass 
the  night  there,  in  order  that  they  might  start 
very  early  to  the  mines. 

So  far  there  had  been  no  warnings  of  the 
plague.  Quarantine  stations  had  not  been 
established,  and  the  Nogales  paper  contain 
ed  no  mention  of  the  scourge.  It  was  gener 
ally  known,  however,  that,  on  account  of 
commercial  reasons,  the  officials  were  no 
torious  for  their  conspiracies  to  ignore  the 
existence  of  danger;  and  plague  reports  were 
often  suspended  altogether. 

There  was  great  commotion  in  the  little 

town  of  Gabriela.     It  was  the  occasion  of 

the  spring  festival,  the  Indian  Deer  Dance. 

As  Ruth  and  Esteban  got  out  at  the  inn, 

189 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

groups  of  stalwart  Indians  and  wide-eyed 
Mexicans,  crowded  about  the  door  of  the 
stage;  but  they  drew  back  at  the  sight  of  the 
fair  haired  woman  and  dignified  caballero. 

Ybarrando  succeeded  in  getting  a  room 
for  Ruth;  but  he  had  to  sleep  all  night  him 
self  on  the  veranda. 

At  dawn  Ruth  was  roused  from  heavy 
sleep  by  an  unearthly  yell  piercing  the  still 
air.  Dressing  quickly  she  went  out  into  the 
plaza.  She  found  herself  in  a  foreign  coun 
try.  Separted  from  the  States  by  merely  an 
imaginary  line — neither  mountain  nor  river 
intervening  to  emphasize  the  transition — Ga- 
briela,  with  its  adobe  huts,  its  single  grass- 
grown  street,  its  miniature  adobe  church 
and  its  people — handsome  women,  wearing 
the  mantilla,  tall  dark  men,  and  squalid  In 
dians  sitting  in  the  sunny  doorways — was  to 
the  visitor  from  across  the  border,  pictures 
que  as  any  corner  of  the  Old  World.  This 
morning  teams  and  wagons  of  every  descrip 
tion,  crowded  the  plaza,  and  from  ladder 
190 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

and  terraced  roof  gay  scarfs  and  bright 
handkerchiefs  fluttered. 

Ybarrando  with  a  group  of  Mexicans, 
stood  on  the  inn  terrace,  watching  the  In 
dians  start  on  the  chase.  Catching  sight  of 
Ruth,  he  quickly  came  down. 

"Their  loud  yells  wakened  you,  Senorita," 
he  said  apologetically.  "I  hoped  that  you 
would  rest  a  little  longer.  It  is  the  spring 
festival,"  he  continued,  pointing  toward  the 
plaza.  "Perhaps  you  would  enjoy  seeing  it, 
we  can  go  up  to  the  roof;  the  burros  will  not 
be  here  until  half  past  six.  They  say  there  is 
no  plague;  they  tell  me  that  the  trail  is 
cleared  of  snow  so  that  there  will  be  no  dan 
ger  in  going,  if  you  still  wish  to  go,  Senorita." 

Ruth's  face  brightened. 

"This  is  good  news,"  she  said.  "And 
there  is  no  mention  of  the  plague,  the  peo 
ple  know  nothing  about  it  here?  But  one 
cannot  tell ;  there  is  so  much  secrecy,  the  facts 
are  often  suppressed,"  continued  Ruth. 

"I  fear  that  you  are  getting  chilled,  Senor- 
191 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

ita,  let  me  fetch  your  cloak  and  some  coffee 
at  once,  if  you  care  to  stay  out  and  watch  the 
chase,"  said  Esteban,  regarding  her  anxi 
ously. 

"I  should  like  it  very  much,"  replied  Ruth, 
and  she  let  Esteban  help  her  up  the  narrow 
ladder  to  the  terrace. 

At  her  approach,  the  Mexican  women 
smiled,  speaking  to  each  other  of  Ruth's 
golden  hair,  which  gleamed  from  beneath  a 
blue  silk  scarf  she  had  thrown  over  her  head. 

Ybarrando  left  her  and  running  into  the 
inn,  returned,  her  furs  under  his  arm,  and 
a  cup  of  coffee  and  plate  of  steaming  tortillas 
in  his  hands.  The  Mexican  women  ex 
changed  significant  glances,  moving  silently 
to  the  opposite  side  of  the  terrace.  Ruth 
smiled  and  begged  Ybarrando  to  join  her  at 
breakfast. 

"No,  you  must  not  wait,  the  tortilla  is 
hot,"  and  eager  as  a  boy  he  stooped  down 
before  her,  holding  her  cup  while  she  ate  the 
tortilla. 

192 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"How  delicious  this  is,  fluffy  as  a  snow 
flake.  But  I  shan't  eat  another  nor  drink 
my  coffee  until  you  go  and  bring  some  for 
yourself,"  said  Ruth  commandingly. 

Off  he  went,  returning  quickly  and  sitting 
down  on  the  terrace  beside  her,  drinking  his 
coffee  and  explaining  the  scene  before  them. 

Below  in  the  quadrangle,  about  fifty  Indi 
ans  were  gathered.  Half  of  the  number  wore 
buckskin  and  were  adorned  with  horns  and 
tails  to  imitate  the  deer;  amongst  them,  here 
and  there,  was  a  figure  more  wild  and  gro 
tesque — a  buffalo — these  buffaloes  were  the 
leaders  of  the  chase.  Each  figure  leaned  upon 
two  sticks  to  perfect  the  dissimulation.  These 
make-believe  animals  were  waiting  to  be  pur 
sued  by  twenty-five  Indian  chiefs — tall, 
splendid  fellows,  almost  nude  and  gorgeously 
painted;  some  of  them  were  chanting  rhyth 
mic  songs  devoid  of  melody. 

With  the  sunrise  the  chanting  grew  loud 
er  and  the  hideous  beating  of  the  tom-toms 
began.  This  was  the  signal  to  start.  As  the 
193 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

sunlight  broke  in  scarlet  and  crimson 
shafts,  over  the  dull,  porphyritic  moun 
tains,  defining  the  plateaus  of  volcanic 
tuff,  so  that  the  distance  was  a  mediaeval 
facade  of  fortress  and  battlement — the  chase 
began. 

Every  face  on  every  adobe  housetop  was 
strained,  alert,  following  the  Indians,  as  with 
abandoned  cry  they  scattered  for  miles 
around,  over  foot-hill  and  mesa,  their  lone 
figures  disappearing  and  reappearing  through 
the  sage  brush — hotly  pursued  by  the  tireless, 
fleet-footed  chiefs. 

Ruth  was  fascinated  with  the  scene,  carried 
out  of  herself;  for  the  moment  she  forgot 
her  anxiety,  Ybarrando  was  delighted  with 
her  enthusiasm.  Once  he  left  her  side  to 
speak  to  the  Mexican  women  opposite  them. 
Suddenly  he  took  a  small  note-book  from  his 
pocket  and  quickly  drew  a  rough  sketch  of 
the  girlish  figure,  the  floating  scarf,  soft  hair, 
and  earnest  profile. 

Because  of  the  excitement  in  Gabriela,  they 
194 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

were  an  hour  late  in  starting. 

Until  noon  the  trail  was  simple  enough,  and 
in  some  parts  very  beautiful — it  was  the 
primeval  forest,  heavily  wooded  with  yuccas, 
high  mesquite  bushes,  iron-wood,  and  live  oak. 

"What  are  these  white  crosses,"  asked 
Ruth,  as  here  and  there  they  gleamed  from 
the  mountain  sides. 

"They  mark  the  path  of  the  Apache,"  ex 
plained  Esteban.  "Years  ago  the  Apaches  de 
vastated  the  entire  country,  many  Mexicans 
were  killed  and  all  the  ranches  destroyed." 
As  he  spoke  a  train  of  crows  filed  overhead. 
"In  the  days  of  the  Apaches,  the  crows  always 
preceded  them — they  held  high  carnival  when 
the  Apaches  were  on  the  war-path." 

"What  a  grotesque  idea!  With  a  little 
effort  of  the  imagination  one  might  see  an 
Apache  behind  every  mesquite  bush,"  and 
Ruth  shuddered,  riding  her  burro  closer  to 
his.  On  they  plodded,  slowly  up  the  steep 
heights,  the  pines  beginning  to  appear  and  the 
air  growing  colder.  When  they  paused  now 

195 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

and  then  to  rest,  the  eternal  silence  and  the 
unreclaimed  beauty  of  the  place  filled  Ruth 
with  wonder. 

"It  is  all  so  virgin,  so  untouched — fresh 
from  the  hand  of  God — one  finds  it  difficult 
to  believe  that  man  has  ever  been  here ;  I 
like  to  fancy  that  you  and  I  are  the  first  to 
have  come  up  these  mute  peaks  and  into  these 
trackless  forests." 

She  had  let  her  voice  sink  almost  into  a 
whisper,  and  throwing  back  her  head  she 
gazed  up  through  the  serried  pines.  At  her 
words  a  glamour  came  over  him,  and  her  fair, 
upturned  face  set  his  heart  throbbing;  but  he 
only  reached  his  hand  across  and  steadied  her 
saddle.  Then  they  rode  on  and  he  said  in  a 
hushed  voice : 

"Si,  si,  Senorita,  it  would  be  beautiful  if  we 
were  the  first  to  have  come,  but  in  centuries 
past  the  Spaniards  and  Indians  ascended  this 
trail  and  worked  the  mines.  After  the  Indian 
massacres,  the  mines  lay  idle  for  a  long  time; 
about  fifty  years  ago  they  were  opened  again. 
196 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

The  older  Mexicans  of  the  settlement  tell  all 
sorts  of  stories  and  legends  handed  down  to 
them  by  their  ancestors;  they  tell  of  large 
towns  here,  and  of  burro  trains  loaded  with 
silver  and  gold;  of  the  last  pack  train  with  a 
retinue  disappearing  and  no  trace  of  the  car 
avan  ever  being  found,  its  leader  supposed  to 
have  been  murdered  by  the  ladrones  or  ban 
dits  who  at  that  time  infested  the  mountains." 

It  was  noon  and  they  had  come  out  upon  a 
broad  mesa  level  to  an  abandoned  ranchito. 
As  they  dismounted  before  the  adobe,  two 
vaqueros  came  to  the  door  and  held  their 
sombreros  in  their  hands,  watching  Ybarran- 
do  as  he  relieved  the  burros  of  the  blankets. 
Ruth  stood  by  his  side,  looking  up  at  the  cu 
riously  shaped  house.  It  was  protected  by 
heavy  buttresses  and  was  like  a  primitive  fort, 
having  been  made  for  the  wise  purpose  of 
shooting  without  interruption  at  the  Apaches. 
The  adobe  was  now  utilized  as  a  posta  be 
tween  Gabriela  and  the  Jesus  Maria  Mines. 

Ruth  and  Ybarrando  went  into  the  adobe, 
197 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

where  a  luncheon  of  frijoles,  bread,  milk  and 
quesadera,  was  laid  on  a  white  deal  table;  no 
one  appeared,  and  Esteban  acted  as  though  he 
were  host.  Going  into  the  patio,  he  found  a 
woman  cracking  corn  in  a  metate ;  he  ordered 
her  to  show  him  the  best  room  in  the  house, 
and  with  his  own  hands,  he  made  a  fire  of 
mesquite  wood  on  the  hearth;  he  glanced 
about  the  room,  a  bundle  of  blankets  lay  rolled 
in  one  corner. 

"Senorita,  we  have  an  hour  to  rest  here," 
he  said,  returning  to  Ruth.  As  he  looked  into 
her  face  it  was  haggard  and  white.  "It  is 
only  three  miles  to  the  camp;  but  ascending 
all  the  way— a  difficult  climb  — a  precipitous 
trail— Senorita  will  you  not  remain  here  to 
night,  and  allow  me  to  go  on  alone?"  he 
urged. 

Tears  sprang  into  Ruth's  eyes.  "Alone, 
Senor  Ybarrando?  Don't  you  think  that  I  am 
equal  to  it?  If  I  could  rest  here  for  a  half 
an  hour,  I  should  be  myself  again." 

"There  are  no  beds  here,  only  the  blankets; 
198 


but  the  rooms  are  clean,"  and  Esteban  went 
out. 

The  Mexican  woman  appeared  and  led 
Ruth  into  the  little  room ;  unrolling  the  heavy 
blankets  before  the  hearth,  she  turned  to  go, 
but  coming  quickly  back,  she  folded  Esteban's 
soft,  old  serape  about  Ruth,  smiling  from  her 
dark  eyes,  and  gesticulating  and  pointing  to 
the  veranda  where  Ybarrando  walked  to  and 
fro. 

In  his  highest  mood,  the  scientist  acknow 
ledges  God,  grows  in  humility.  Ybarrando, 
working  in  his  laboratory  with  the  earth's 
more  subtle  elements,  had  nourished  rather 
than  starved  his  soul-life.  Impalpable,  al 
luring  as  the  etheric  forces  that  played  about 
his  universe  of  light  and  heat,  was  the  per 
sonality  of  Ruth— he  was  worshipful  before 
it.  Yet  over  against  this  passive  worship 
was  the  ardour  of  the  devot — the  delight  in 
the  objective  revelation.  Today  as  Esteban 
paced  by  Ruth's  door  he  felt  an  ecstacy  like 
that  which  his  Catholic  mother  had  felt 
199 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

kneeling  before  the 'images  and  holy  saints; 
he  stooped  and  bowed  his  head  upon  the 
door — her  low  breathing  exhaled  something 
finer  than  the  mystic  vapor  of  the  incense. 

The  vaqueros  had  taken  the  burros  for 
water.  When  they  came  back,  they  told 
Ybarrando  that  there  had  been  a  heavy  fall 
of  snow  in  the  mountains,  and  that  the  trail 
to  the  Jesus  Maria  Mines  was  dangerous  in 
mtny  places.  They  seemed  to  know  nothing 
about  the  plague,  and  doubted  the  truth  of 
the  report;  but  they  depended  wholly  upon 
the  chance  passerby  for  all  information; 
they  saw  a  newspaper  once  a  month,  some 
times  it  was  several  weeks  old.  The  old 
man  and  woman  at  the  posta  were  ignorant 
of  the  plague  rumor. 

At  two  o'clock  Ruth  came  out  greatly  re 
freshed,  and  after  taking  a  glass  of  pinole, 
she  and  Ybarrando  started  again  on  the 
journey. 

The  sun  was  trying  hard  to  shine,  but  the 
wind  was  cold,  and  there  were  ugly  clouds 
200 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

hanging  over  the  Jesus  Maria  peak,  behind 
which  lay  the  small  hamlet  and  the  mining 
camp. 

As  she  mounted  the  burro,  Esteban 
wrapped  Ruth  well  in  the  blankets  and  they 
began  the  ascent  in  earnest.  In  some  places 
the  burros  would  stop  altogether.  For  years 
the  trail  had  been  used  and  the  hoof  prints 
of  the  burros  were  like  well  worn  steps  on 
the  trail;  but  the  snows  had  been  frequent 
and  heavy,  packing  in  the  holes  —  one  mis 
step  and  they  would  be  hurled  hundreds  of 
feet  below. 

Soon  dismounting,  Ybarrando  let  his 
burro  lead  the  way,  while  he  walked  in  front 
of  Ruth's.  The  trail  was  fairly  wide,  but 
the  old  landmarks  were  hidden,  and  the  cau 
tious  beasts  crept  along;  night  was  fast  ap 
proaching. 

A  look  of  distress  came  over  Ruth's  face. 

"You  are  suffering,  Senorita,  but  there  is 
no  danger— it  is  only  very  slow.  Are  you 
vvarm  enough?"  asked  Esteban  with  con- 
201 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

cern,  stopping  to  fold  the  blankets  more 
closely  about  her — his  manner  was  earnestly 
solicitous. 

"Yes,  I  am  perfectly  comfortable,  but 
why  do  you  walk,  Senor  Ybarrando?  It 
disturbs  me,  with  the  snow  so  deep.  The 
burro  knows  his  way  better  than  you  can 
show  him,  doesn't  he?" 

"Perhaps  so,  Senorita,  but  I  should  rather 
walk  than  ride;"  then  glancing  askance  at 
her,  "the  burro  carries  precious  ore;  it 
wouldn't  do  to  let  it  slip  into  yonder  canon, 
no,  no,  you  will  allow  me  to  walk,  Senorita," 
he  pleaded. 

Ruth  smiled,  deeply  moved  at  his  devo 
tion;  she  was  now  so  tired  that  she  found 
herself  losing  courage  and  scarcely  able  to 
hold  her  seat. 

About  five  o'clock,  Ybarrando  pointed  out 
to  Ruth  the  little  hamlet  of  Jesus  Maria, 
with  the  mining  camp  just  beyond.  The  rays 
of  the  setting  sun  lighted  up  the  gilt  cross 
of  the  small  church,  about  which  clustered 
202 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

the  squat  adobe  huts,  some  of  them  white 
washed,  but  many  of  them  enclosed  in  hedges 
of  enormous  cactus  and  indistinguishable 
from  the  desert  upon  which  they  were  built. 
The  settlement  was  about  six  thousand  feet 
above  sea  level,  while  the  mine  towered  two 
hundred  feet  above  the  village,  and  was  lo 
cated  upon  an  eminence— the  denuded  and 
dissected  remains  of  an  old  volcano — it  was 
called  the  Hill  of  the  Cross.  It  was  an 
ugly  height;  the  great  smoke-stacks  of  the 
smelters  dwarfing  a  tall  white  cross  that  had 
once  dignified  the  elevation. 

"We  shall  reach  the  camp  in  half  an 
hour,"  said  Ybarrando,  as  he  mounted  his 
burro  and  they  rode  into  the  settlement. 

From  the  adobe  church  a  feeble  bell  tolled 
the  vesper  hour,  and  moving  slowly  along 
the  road  to  the  church  door,  came  a  Mexi 
can  woman,  two  ragged  children  clinging  to 
her  skirts. 

Ybarrando    went   up    to    her    and    spoke 
quickly,  returning  to  Ruth. 
203 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"She  says  no  plague  has  ever  been  in 
Jesus  Maria;  that  two  Mexicans  were  bur 
ied  at  the  church  a  week  ago,  having  died  of 
pneumonia  up  at  the  mines." 

Ruth's  color  fled  from  her  face. 

"Do  you  suppose  it  is  all  a  mistake,  that 
I  have  come  all  this  journey— brought  you 
here  — for  nothing?"  she  gasped,  turning  to 
Esteban. 

He  looked  at  her  with  vast  pity  in  his  eyes. 
Her  remark  was  full  of  pathetic  truth.  She 
was  afraid  that  Woodbridge  would  be  angry 
at  her  headlong  act.  Had  he  been  ill,  she 
would  have  had  at  least  an  excuse  for  her  de 
votion.  She  felt  she  would  be  frightfully 
in  his  way;  perhaps  he  was  already  gone  to 
Mexico.  This  last  thought  comforted  her  a 
little. 

On  they  went  past  the  melancholy  mud 
huts,  along  the  road  to  the  Hill  of  the  Cross. 
Ybarrando  urged  on  the  mules,  his  heart  leap 
ing  with  joy  at  the  assurance  that  Ruth  was 
out  of  danger.  All  the  journey  a  heavy  load 
204 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

had  weighed  him  down — the  thought  of  her 
jeopardizing  her  life  for  Woodbridge. 

The  light  began  to  twinkle  from  the  twenty 
or  more  tents  that  were  scattered  at  the  foot 
of  the  dump. 

"Do  they  all  sleep  in  tents?"  asked  Ruth, 
"no  wonder  that  they  die  of  pneumonia." 

"Oh,  this  fine  air,  Seiiorita,  cold,  but  dry 
as  steel,"  returned  Esteban.  "I  like  nothing 
better  than  sleeping  out  on  these  mountain 
ranges.  To  be  sure  this  heavy  snow  fall  is 
unusual,  it  is  a  little  cold,"  and  Ybarrando 
felt  a  chill  run  over  him,  for  his  feet  were  wet 
through  from  walking  up  the  trail. 


205 


CHAPTER  XIII 

i 

WOODBRIDGE'S  cabin  stood  a 
little  apart  from  the  tents.  On 
this  particular  evening,  he  and 
Karl    Johnson,    the    overseer, 
were    consulting    a    long    pay 
roll.     The  Jesus  Maria  plant  had  a  pay  roll 
to  be  proud  of,  amounting  to  fifty  thousand 
a  month. 

As  they  neared  the  cabin,  Ruth  slackened 
her  burro's  gait  and  kept  close  to  Esteban. 
Her  heart  beat  fast  and  her  eyes  were  spark 
ling.  Tenderly  he  lifted  her  from  the  burro; 
she  started  toward  the  door  and  would  have 
knocked,  but  waited  until  Esteban  tied  the 
burros,  and  stood  at  her  side,  bag  and  blan 
kets  in  his  arms. 

Woodbridge  flung  open  the  door.     Ruth's 
white  face  peered  up  out  of  the  darkness  at 
him,  unexpectedly,  as  though  one  of  the  stars 
overhead  had  fallen  at  his  feet. 
206 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

For  an  instant  he  drew  back.  "Great  Heav 
ens,  Ruth !  what  has  brought  you  here — and 
alone!" 

Then  he  moved  toward  her,  and  she  threw 
her  arms  about  him.  Lifting  her  head  she 
pointed  to  the  door  where  Esteban  lingered. 
Woodbridge's  first  impulse  was  to  step  for 
ward  and  grasp  his  hand;  but  a  look  in  the 
Mexican's  eyes,  fixed  upon  the  woman's  face 
at  his  breast,  withheld  him — perhaps  there 
was  something  in  the  letter  after  all. 

A  smile  curling  his  under  lip,  he  nodded  at 
Esteban,  and  said,  "Oh,  I  see  you  have  a 
guide,  come  in  Ybarrando." 

Esteban  entered,  holding  out  his  hand  to 
Woodbridge.  "Senorita  Hastings  read  that 
the  plague  had  reached  Gabriela,  and  that  you 
and  two  miners  were  stricken — she  felt  that 
she  must  come,"  the  tone  of  his  voice  was  in 
evitable. 

"Ah!"  murmured  Woodbridge. 

"How  such  a  report  got  about,"  he  con 
tinued  coldly,  "I'm  sure  I  can't  see.  Likely 
207 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

the  death  of  those  peons  a  week  ago  started 
it.  They  wandered  up  here  from  Hermo- 
sillo  when  the  plague  was  raging  at  Mazat- 
lan.  Several  days  after,  both  were  taken  ill 
and  died;  but  it  was  from  pneumonia,  not 
plague.  A  white  man  rarely  catches  the  dis 
ease,  it  attacks  Chinamen  and  cholos.  The 
sanitary  conditions  here,  the  short  supply  of 
water,  have  made  me  dread  pneumonia,  but 
not  the  plague." 

While  Woodbridge  talked,  he  glanced 
helplessly  at  his  two  visitors,  as  if  they  were 
luggage  on  his  hands. 

"I  presume  you  had  a  difficult  time  getting 
up  the  trail.  Johnson  said  that  the  snow  had 
made  it  dangerous  in  places,"  he  went  on,  ad 
dressing  Esteban. 

"Yes,  it  was  bad,  very  bad  from  the  ranch- 
ito  on,"  replied  Esteban. 

"Gerald,  Senor  Ybarrando  walked  every 
step  of  the  way  by  the  side  of  my  burro,"  in 
terrupted  Ruth,  giving  Esteban  a  look  of  grat 
itude. 

208 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Woodbridge  saw  that  his  shoes  were 
soaked. 

"Where  are  you  Johnson?"  called  Wood- 
bridge. 

At  the  sound  of  the  manager's  voice,  John 
son,  who  had  retired  into  an  adjoining  room, 
came  in.  He  was  a  burly  Swede  with  straight 
blonde  hair  and  a  child's  big,  blue  eyes.  He 
looked  wonderingly  at  Ruth  and  Ybarrando, 
and  was  overcome  with  embarrassment  when 
Woodbridge  introduced  him. 

"Some  friends  have  arrived  to  nurse  us 
through  the  plague,"  explained  Woodbridge 
dryly.  "Tell  Mrs.  Johnson  they  must 
have  supper.  I  guess  you'll  have  to  set  up 
that  A  flap  for  me.  Miss  Hastings  will 
take  my  room,  she  will  want  to  be  next  to 
Mrs.  Johnson,"  said  Woodbridge  in  a  glum 
manner. 

"Better  let  the  women  have  the  suite  of 

rooms,"  said  Johnson  good  naturedly.     "I'll 

fix  up  the  old  tent  for  Mr.  Hypochondria  and 

me."        Johnson's  blue  eyes   rolled   in  their 

209 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

cushions  of  flesh  toward  Ybarrando.  John 
son  was  all  flesh.  As  he  moved  through  the 
small  door  it  seemed  as  if  a  hippopotamus  had 
disappeared. 

The  first  explanations  over,  a  silence  fell 
on  the  little  group ;  and  when  they  had  par 
taken  of  Mrs.  Johnson's  supper,  Ybarrando 
was  restless,  and  said  he  would  go  out  and 
see  if  Johnson  had  attended  to  the  burros. 

"Wait,  Ybarrando,  I'll  go  along  and  show 
you  the  way,  I  want  to  know  how  you  left 
things  at  the  works." 

The  men  left  Ruth  in  the  company  of 
Mrs.  Johnson,  a  tall,  silent  Mexican  wo 
man. 

"Knowing  that  you  had  trusted  him  be 
fore,  I  gave  Lane  a  check  to  pay  off  the  men 
on  Saturday,  in  case  that  I  shouldn't  get 
back,"  said  Ybarrando  to  Woodbridge,  "but 
I  shall  return  in  the  morning." 

"The  truth  is  I  was  making  my  plans  with 
Johnson  to  leave  the  camp  early  in  the  morn 
ing  for  the  City  of  Mexico,"  replied  Wood- 
210 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

bridge.  "A  Canadian  Company  is  waiting 
to  sign  up  with  me  about  taking  the  super 
vision  of  their  new  roads.  I  was  due  there 
ten  days  ago,  I  wrote  them  that  I  shouldn't 
come  later  than  the  twenty-seventh  of  the 
month— tomorrow  is  the  first  of  March.  I 
hate  to  think  of  Miss  Hastings  attempting 
to  hurry  back;  but  there's  nothing  to  stay 
here  for."  He  looked  moodily  across  to  the 
tents,  where  the  men,  most  of  them  Mexi 
cans,  were  smoking,  or  playing  cards  by  the 
dim  flicker  of  tallow  candles;  the  thrumming 
of  a  guitar  was  heard  in  the  distance. 

Just  then  the  figure  of  Johnson  protruded 
from  the  flap  of  the  large  tent.  "Guess  Mr. 
Hypochondria  won't  object  to  an  early  bunk. 
I  brought  your  blankets  along  with  me." 

Johnson  stood  up  unrolling  them;  out  of 
Esteban's  faded  scrape  fluttered  a  little 
white  handkerchief. 

"See  here  Johnson,"  said  Woodbridge,  as 
Esteban  sprang  forward  taking  blankets  and 
handkerchief  out  of  the  awkward  fellow's 
211 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

arms,  and  thrusting  the  handkerchief  into 
his  pocket,  "you  two  men  can't  sleep  together 
here,  can't  you  find  another  tent?" 

"We'll  get  on  comfortably,  I  can  sleep 
any  place  indoors  or  out,"  said  Esteban. 
With  a  brief  good-night,  Woodbridge  was 
off. 

It  was  Johnson's  habit  to  go  to  bed  early. 
While  Esteban  was  in  the  first  stages  of  un 
dressing,  he  was  fast  asleep.  Esteban  was 
nervous,  disquieted;  heat  as  of  a  raging  fever 
surged  through  his  brain.  Glancing  sharply 
at  the  shapeless  mass  of  the  Swede,  he  threw 
his  serape  about  him  and  stealing  past  the 
silent  tents,  made  his  way  out  of  the  camp. 

All  was  still  with  the  stillness  of  night  and 
the  desert;  the  traditional  dog  at  this  special 
hour,  held  his  peace;  the  palpitating  stars 
overhead  and  the  mountain's  vital  breath  — 
these  only  accompanied  him.  As  he  walked, 
he  turned  his  hot  face  to  the  blue  night-sky; 
he  took  off  his  hat  to  let  the  snowladen  air 
cool  the  frenzy  in  his  brain.  Mad  impulses 
212 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

possessed  him.  He  recalled  Woodbridge's 
scornful  glance;  he  heard  the  condescension 
of  his  voice.  The  old  race-antipathy  was 
roused;  he  hated  himself  for  being  the  de 
pendent  of  this  American,  for  whom  he  had 
no  respect  and  whom  he  despised— this  man 
who  possessed  the  heart  of  the  woman  he 
worshipped.  In  the  old  days,  the  rival  was 
got  out  of  the  way.  Esteban  felt  for  the 
little  knife  in  his  pocket — the  one  he  had  car 
ried  to  protect  la  Senorita;  he  took  it  out, 
fingered  the  thin,  clean  blade.  It  could  be 
put  to  a  new  use— one  thrust,  and  he  could 
forever  send  himself  where  there  would  be 
no  more  anguish.  Great  beads  of  sweat 
stood  on  his  brow;  the  fever  burned  like  a 
flame  —  a  scorching,  white  heat. 

On  he  stumbled  up  the  steep  hillside, 
clenching  the  knife,  muttering  incoherent 
words.  A  large  moon  rose,  solemnly  lighting 
the  Hill  of  the  Cross;  the  rude  wooden  sym 
bol  stood  forth  as  Esteban  approached  — re 
buking  him.  More  sternly  he  clutched  the 
213 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

knife— something  hindered  a  full  grasp— 
the  little  white  handkerchief  that  he  had 
thrust  into  his  pocket  had  twisted  itself 
about  the  handle !  Flinging  himself  at  the 
foot  of  the  cross,  passionately  he  pressed  the 
handkerchief  to  his  lips,  to  his  burning  eye 
balls,  groaning  in  an  agony  of  prayer. 

For  a  long  time  he  lay  there.  The  moon 
was  gone,  the  early  morning  air,  icy  cold,  at 
last  wakened  him  out  of  a  dead  stupor.  His 
mind,  his  will,  were  alive  within  him,  he  felt 
kingly  of  spirit;  but  racked  by  chills  and  a 
violent  fever,  his  body  made  no  response. 
With  difficulty  he  found  his  way  back  to  the 
camp. 

Early  in  the  morning  Johnson  greeted 
Ybarrando  with  cheery  words,  but  he  was 
unable  to  speak. 

Scrambling  into  his  clothes,  Johnson  hur 
ried  off  for  his  wife.  She  looked  at  the 
flushed  face,  listened  to  the  heavy  breathing; 
then  in  awe-stricken  tones,  whispered  in 
Spanish  to  her  husband,  that  it  was  another 
case  of  pneumonia. 

214 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"  "W"  T  is  serious  you  think?"  asked  Ruth, 
betraying  in  her  voice  both  pity  and 
alarm. 

Woodbridge  had  returned  from 
Johnson's  tent,  where  he  had  found 
Esteban  ill  with  a  raging  fever.  He  stood  be 
fore  the  cabin  door  looking  down  on  the  camp. 
Without  turning  he  replied,  "The  fever  hasn't 
made  great  headway  yet,  but  the  temperature 
is  too  high  to  hope  for  much;  there  is  every 
indication  that  it  will  develop  into  pneu 
monia." 

Ruth  paled  and  came  down  the  steps  to 
Woodbridge's  side. 

"With  nothing  but  Juana's  box  of  yerba 
santa,  the  situation  is  bad,"  dismally  con 
tinued  Woodbridge.  "He  must  have  a  doc 
tor,  if  it's  possible  to  get  one  up  here.  Do  you 
think  that  you  would  be  equal  to  going  back 
this  morning?  Then  I  could  send  the  doctor 
215 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

from  Nogales.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  san 
itary  conditions  are  so  poor  that  I  dont'  like 
to  risk  either  you  or  myself  here  a  day  longer. 
And  I'm  through  with  the  business,  I  ought 
to  go  back  today." 

Ruth  turned  directly  toward  him.  "Don't 
you  think  that  Johnson  could  go  for  the  doc 
tor?  I'm  able  to  return  this  morning,  but  I 
think  we  ought  to  stay  to  see  what  the  doctor 
thinks  is  the  matter  with  Senor  Ybarrando, 
to  find  out  if  it  is  pneumonia." 

"Supposing  it  pneumonia,  what  can  we 
do?"  abruptly  replied  Woodbridge.  "If  I 
went  to  Hermosillo  I  couldn't  find  a  better 
nurse  than  Juana  Johnson.  All  the  men  in 
the  camp  come  to  her.  These  Mexicans  have 
the  greatest  confidence  in  their  women  and 
their  yerba  santa.  I  fancy  Ybarrando  is  no 
exception,  though  of  course  I'll  send  up  a  doc 
tor.  I  repeat  I  cannot  see  any  point  in  our 
staying  if  you  are  able  to  go  today." 

There  was  nothing  like  subterfuge  in  Ruth. 
Even  when  she  and  Woodbridge  had  dis- 
216 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

agreed,  the  intercourse  between  them  had  al 
ways  been  of  the  frankest  character.  Because 
of  her  love  she  had  perhaps  been  his  victim; 
but  she  had  not  permitted  him  to  change  her 
moral  nature — to  turn  her  into  a  creature  of 
pretexts  and  artifice. 

Walking  apart  from  Woodbridge,  she 
stood  on  the  edge  of  the  dump,  her  serious 
eyes  fastened  on  the  white  tent  below  them 
where  the  sick  man  lay. 

"Gerald,  I  brought  Senor  Ybarrando  here, 
I  am  directly  the  cause  of  his  illness;  yester 
day  he  walked  for  hours  through  the  snow, 
leading  my  burro.  If  he  should  grow  worse, 
if  anything  were  to  happen — don't  you  under 
stand?"  She  paused  for  a  moment;  "he 
risked  the  plague  to  bring  me  to  you,  surely 
\ve  must  recognize  kindness  like  this!" 

Irritated,  angry,  Woodbridge  drew  out  a 
cigarette,  lighted  it  and  walked  up  to  Ruth. 
"I  understand  you,  but  I  confess  not  to  sym 
pathize  with  you  to  the  extent  of  staying  on 
when  we  are  actually  of  no  use— our  being 
217 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

here  only  gives  Juana  more  to  do." 

"That  is  just  the  point,  I  could  help  her, 
help  her  to  nurse  Senor  Ybarrando,"  insisted 
Ruth. 

Woodbridge  was  unprepared  for  any  such 
proposal  from  Ruth.  Once  again  the  myste 
rious  note  and  its  contents  flashed  before  him. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  there  was  any  signifi 
cance  in  the  nonsense? 

"Ruth  I  do  not  like  to  accuse  you  of  talk 
ing  absurdly;  but  for  you  to  suggest  that  we 
stay  here  that  you  may  help  nurse  Ybarrando, 
with  whose  illness  you  really  have  nothing  to 
do,  is  preposterous.  He  must  have  been  half 
sick  when  he  started,  the  congestion  has  evi 
dently  been  going  on  for  several  days.  Ybar 
rando  should  have  known  better  than  to  have 
come.  If  you  persisted  in  coming,  he  might 
have  sent  you  with  old  Chavez,  who  has 
been  down  here  with  me  many  a  time. 

"I  asked  Senor  Ybarrando  to  come.  I 
should  have  been  unwilling  to  have  had  any 
one  else.  But  Gerald,  this  is  no  time  to  stop 
218 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

to  argue;  at  this  moment  Senor  Ybarrando 
ought  to  be  having  careful  attention.  You  re 
member  that  the  trained  nurse  and  I  were  up 
day  and  night  with  father,  and  how  unexpect 
edly  he  died.  Pneumonia  is  a  most  treacher 
ous  illness,  one  never  knows  what  to  look  for ; 
poultices  must  be  constantly  applied.  I  know 
just  what  to  do,  at  least  until  the  doctor 
comes,"  as  Ruth  spoke  she  moved  toward  the 
cabin  and  went  in. 

Astounded  at  her  diregard  of  his  point  of 
view;  non-plussed  by  the  anxiety  and  eager 
ness  in  Ruth's  voice,  Woodbridge  did  not 
follow  her  for  a  moment;  then  he  walked 
fiercely  into  the  house. 

"Ruth  I  forbid  you  to  go  any  further.  Your 
actions  are  unaccountable — open  to  criticism 
even  in  a  mining-camp.  I  have  a  little  prerog 
ative  in  this  matter.  You  will  be  ready  to 
go  down  with  me  at  eleven  o'clock." 

Fire  darted  from  the  girl's  eyes;  but  her 
voice  and  manner  were  beseeching. 

"Gerald,  dear  Gerald,  I  must  stay,"  she 
219 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

turned  from  him  and  went  into  the  little 
kitchen,  whose  thin  partition  rose  —  a  wall  of 
granite — between  them. 

Woodbridge's  eyes  followed  her.  So 
quiet  and  finally  determined  was  her  man 
ner,  that  astonishment  more  than  anger  took 
possession  of  him — something  akin  to  ad 
miration  was  in  his  look;  but  it  was  quickly 
replaced  by  one  of  wounded  pride  and  cha 
grin.  His  will  was  no  longer  lord  over  this 
woman  of  his  choice. 

He  went  back  into  the  office  and  quickly 
made  ready  to  leave  the  camp.  Once  or 
twice  he  considered  remaining,  and  allowing 
Johnson  to  go  for  the  doctor.  But  someone 
was  needed  at  the  Chemical  Works,  now  that 
Ybarrando  was  unable  to  return;  then  he 
was  overdue  in  the  City  of  Mexico.  It  was  out 
of  the  question  to  stay  even  for  a  day.  He 
cursed  the  moment  that  he  had  set  eyes  upon 
Ybarrando.  The  whole  situation  was  an 
abominable  one.  He  would  leave  directions 
with  Johnson  to  take  Ruth  down  when  she 
220 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

was  ready  to  go. 

He  returned  for  a  moment  into  the  kitchen 
to  bid  Ruth  good-bye.  She  was  stirring  a 
pan  of  flaxseed  over  the  stove,  she  put  out 
her  hand,  and  he  kissed  her  coldly  on  the 
forehead;  the  look  in  her  eyes  baffled  him. 

The  Johnsons  were  surprised  at  Wood- 
bridge's  leaving  without  Ruth.  The  loquaci 
ous  Karl  explained  confidingly  to  Juana  that 
evidently  there  was  a  sad  misunderstanding 
between  Woodbridge  and  Miss  Hastings. 

Juana  shook  her  head  gravely  as  she  bent 
over  Ybarrando's  cot,  and  asked  her  hus 
band  to  make  la  Senorita  comfortable,  mut 
tering  under  her  breath  that  she  wished  la 
Americana  had  gone. 

Karl  Johnson  was  a  Swedish-American 
who  since  leaving  the  old  country  some  thirty 
years  ago,  had  been  a  miner  in  the  West.  Ill 
luck  had  attended  him,  until  wandering  into 
Arizona,  he  became  overseer  of  the  young 
Senorita  Romualdo's  rancho.  She  was  then 
about  eighteen,  the  sole  mistress  of  the 
221 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

hacienda  with  three  hundred  men  under  her. 
A  taciturn,  fearless,  handsome  creature,  full 
of  bravery  and  border-spirit— a  Mexican 
Brynhild.  Johnson  was  the  first  foreigner 
whom  she  had  ever  seen  and  the  first  man  to 
tame  her.  His  dry  wit  and  kindliness  had 
won  her  heart.  He,  in  turn,  was  fascinated 
by  her  wild  beauty;  nor  was  his  mercenary 
spirit  blind  to  the  possibilities  in  the  rancho. 

One  day  Woodbridge  had  stopped  over 
night  at  the  Johnson's  on  his  way  to  the  Jesus 
Maria  Mines.  He  recognized  the  steady 
Swede's  ability,  and  made  him  a  proposition 
to  go  to  the  mines.  This  was  a  day  of  grief 
for  Juana.  The  old  rancho  was  sold  and  the 
cattle  driven  hither  and  thither— Los  Ameri 
canos  were  in  possession.  From  that  mo 
ment  Juana  detested  the  invaders. 

Upon  Woodbridge's  departure,  Ruth  felt 
called  upon  to  explain  to  the  Johnsons  the 
reason  for  her  remaining  behind.  She  and 
Johnson  sat  together  at  the  dinner  table. 
Johnson  stopped  eating,  turned  sidewise  on 
222 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

his  chair,  opening  his  innocent  eyes  wider 
and  wider. 

"Mr.  Woodbridge  felt  obliged  to  go 
back,"  she  said,  "but  it  did  not  seem  wise 
for  both  of  us  to  leave  until  we  knew  what 
the  doctor  thought  was  the  matter  with  Senor 
Ybarrando.  At  my  request  he  came  to  the 
camp.  The  papers  said  that  Mr.  Wood- 
bridge  had  been  striken  with  the  plague,  I 
felt  that  I  must  come  at  any  cost.  Senor 
Ybarrando  would  not  let  me  come  alone,  and 
he  walked  in  the  snow  up  the  trail  which  no 
doubt  brought  on  this  cold.  I  feel  that  in 
some  measure  I  am  responsible;  that  it  is  my 
duty  to  stay  and  help  Mrs.  Johnson." 

There  was  a  sympathetic  response  in  the 
blue  eyes.  "I  see,  I  see,"  said  Johnson.  "My 
wife  is  a  first-class  nurse;  but  there's  no 
tellin'  how  long  the  Senor  Hypochondria,  I 
should  say  Ybarrando,  may  be  ill.  She  says 
it's  a  bad  case  of  pneumonia,  that  he  seems 
delicate.  She's  taken  a  great  likin'  to  him, 
calls  him  a  caballero— that  means  high-toned 
223 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

in  Mexican.  She  says  it  will  be  a  mighty  dif 
ferent  thing  nursin'  him  from  nursin'  the  two 
peons,  his  system  won't  stand  what  theirs 
did,  and  they  didn't  pull  through.  By 
evenin'  the  doctor  ought  to  be  here." 

Johnson  got  up  and  shuffled  over  to  the 
door,  clapping  his  sombrero  on  the  back  of 
his  blonde  head.  "She'll  be  glad  enough  that 
you've  stayed,  Miss  Hastings;  for  I'm  no 
hand  at  nursin'  at  all,  specially  when  it  comes 
to  the  night  turn.  The  Mexicans  give  up 
mighty  easy  in  sickness;  they  sometimes 
seem  a  delicater  race  than  ours.  If  anyone 
can  pull  him  through,  my  wife  can;  she's  an 
expectation  to  every  one." 


224 


1 


CHAPTER  XV 

HE  American  doctor  had  come 
from  Nogales,  and  had  pre 
scribed  medicines  and  directions, 
that  would  never  have  been  ad 
ministered  by  Juana,  if  Ruth  had 
not  been  present  when  they  were  given;  he 
also  left  a  small  tin  box  with  a  preparation  for 
plasters,  this  unaccountably  disappeared,  Ju 
ana  declaring  that  the  doctor  must  have  put 
it  back  in  his  bag  by  mistake. 

Juana  Johnson  was  sprung  from  a  long 
line  of  curanderas,  familiarly  called  viejas  — 
old  women  healers — who  are  to  be  found  in 
all  Mexican  communities.  Her  intelligence 
about  sickness,  her  knowledge  of  the  efficacy 
of  certain  herbs,  was  instinctive.  Like  the  old 
women  before  her,  she  was  supplied  with  a 
large  gunnysack,  filledwithahundredor  more 
small  packages  tied  with  bright  bits  of  calico, 
and  containing  every  sort  of  herb  imaginable. 
225 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

It  was  from  this  simple  pharmacy  that  Este- 
ban  was  to  be  restored  and  made  well. 

Ruth  proved  to  be  invaluable  in  assisting 
Juana  to  nurse  Ybarrando.  As  he  tossed  in 
delirium,  one  word  was  constantly  upon  his 
lips.  Sometimes  it  escaped  from  him  in  sen 
tences  wild  and  incoherent;  again  he  whis 
pered  it  low  and  tender.  Juana  bending  over 
the  cot  to  replace  the  poultice,  let  a  hot  tear 
fall  on  the  blanket. 

"Is  it  someone's  name?"  asked  Ruth,  rising 
to  stir  the  fresh  flaxseed  and  to  put  water  on 
the  stove.  She  looked  at  Esteban's  flushed 
face;  his  straight  heavy  hair  hung  in  clammy 
masses  over  his  brow,  and  he  stirred  in  pain. 

"No,  it's  no  one's  name.  It  is  a  love  name 
—very  precious,"  replied  the  Mexican  woman 
in  broken  English.  "Has  he  a  sister,  a  little 
sister?"  she  went  on  pulling  the  blanket  gently 
over  the  sick  man,  and  turning  her  penetrat 
ing  eyes  upon  Ruth. 

"No,  I  believe  there  is  no  sister,  there  is  a 
cousin,  a  beautiful  girl;  but  she  is  tall,  very 
226 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

tall,"  said  Ruth,  the  graceful  figure  of  the 
girl  Francisca  rising  before  her. 

Again  Esteban  moaned,  "Mi  queridita." 

"It  can't  be  her  he  has  on  his  mind,"  said 
Juana,  'Mi  queridita'  always  means  a  little 
person,  my  little  one,"  and  again  she  turned 
to  Ruth,  this  time  surveying  the  girl  from 
head  to  foot  with  a  stony  glance  which  fright 
ened  Ruth. 

Johnson  had  endeavored  to  explain  to  Ju 
ana  why  Ruth  had  remained  at  the  camp.  Du 
biety  and  distrust  were  in  the  shrug  of  her 
fine  shoulders  as  she  turned  to  see  to  her  pa 
tient. 

"You  know  that  I  do  not  trust  them,  Karl 

— los  Americanos.   Duty — I  don't  know  what 

she  means;   Senor  Ybarrando  loves  her  con 

gran  pasion — has  la  Senorita  had  nothing  to 

do  with  it?" 

Finer  irony  than  any  rhetoric  may  convey, 
was  in  her  interrogation.     Always  brief  of 
speech,  Juana  said  no  more,  but  she  deter 
mined  to  watch  Ruth  closely. 
227 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

It  was  the  second  week  of  watching.  Juana 
had  much  need  of  rest.  One  night,  Ruth, 
fearing  that  the  woman  might  fall  asleep 
at  the  greatest  risk  to  Esteban,  asked  John 
son  to  take  her  down  to  the  tent. 

"You  are  so  worn,  won't  you  sleep,  Mrs. 
Johnson,  and  let  me  watch  for  a  few  hours?" 
said  Ruth,  going  up  to  the  dark,  unapproach 
able  figure  and  putting  her  arms  about  her 
waist.  "Senor  Ybarrando  rests  much  more 
easily  tonight,"  and  Ruth  glanced  toward  the 
cot. 

Juana  made  no  reply;  looking  sternly  over 
the  girl's  head,  she  called  to  her  husband, 
who  for  reasons  of  his  owrn  had  not  followed 
Ruth  into  the  tent;  nor  did  he  appear  at  the 
sound  of  his  wife's  peremptory  voice.  Juana 
went  out  to  him  and  directly  Ruth  heard 
Johnson,  coaxing,  persuading,  and  her  own 
name  came  repeatedly  across  the  vibrant  air. 
After  a  while  Juana  came  in,  and  without 
any  comment  wrapped  a  black  shawl  about 
her  shoulders  and  threw  herself  down  upon 
228 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

an  Indian  blanket  that  lay  across  the  tent. 
Ruth  took  a  chair  close  by  Esteban's  cot  and 
on  into  the  night  she  watched.  He  lay  quiet 
ly,  the  delirium  had  ceased,  the  fever  had  al 
most  gone;  she  knew  that  the  crisis  had  pass 
ed.  Once  Juana  got  up  to  put  on  a  fresh 
poultice,  and  succumbed  to  Ruth's  persua 
sions  to  rest  a  little  longer. 

It  was  midnight.  Healing  winds  blew  into 
the  tent — air  laden  with  the  aromatic  scent 
of  the  chia  and  the  fragance  of  mountain 
pine.  Ruth  rose  softly  and  went  over  to  the 
tent  opening.  She  leaned  out  breathing  in 
the  balsamic  odors;  over  the  wall  of  hills, 
one  tremulous  star  spoke  to  her  out  of  the 
stillness;  through  the  mesmeric  atmosphere, 
her  thoughts  came  quick  and  fast,— like  ap 
paritions  they  hovered  about  her— apart 
from  her,  reasoning  one  moment,  on  fire  the 
next.  She  had  never  doubted  the  Tightness 
of  her  act  in  remaining  to  nurse  Senor  Ybar- 
rando;  but  why  had  she  felt  disquietude  in 
her  heart  when  she  fancied  the  sick  man's 
229 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

murmurings  were  for  Francisca?  Of  what 
consequence  was  it  to  her?  During  these 
days  of  waiting  why  had  she  neither  eaten 
nor  slept?  When  she  went  back  to  the  cabin 
and  tried  to  rest,  why  had  the  earnest  face  of 
the  man  there  on  the  pillow,  followed  her? 
What  privilege  had  she,  the  betrothed  of 
Gerald  Woodbridge,  to  intrude  upon  an 
other  man's  life?  Yet  hour  by  hour  she  had 
forecast  the  future  of  Senor  Ybarrando,  and 
Gerald  Woodbridge  was  always  a  stumbling 
block  in  the  way.  Once,  twice,  oftener,  an 
other  cloud  had  arisen — the  fact  that  Senor 
Ybarrando  was  a  Mexican.  How  little  dif 
ference  this  meant  after  all ! 

Something — the  primordial  wildness  of 
the  spot — the  largeness  of  the  mountains— 
the  desert  wind,  untameable,  free,  as  it  toyed 
with  her  hair — bade  her  cast  off  her  old  pa 
tient  self  and  the  circumscribed,  conventional 
life;  her  fettered  heart  called  back  to  the 
wind;  and  a  light,  more  mysterious  than  that 
of  the  dawn  breaking  over  the  mountains, 
230 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

stole  into  her  face— Love's  revelation! 

Esteban  stirred.  Noiselessly  Ruth  moved 
toward  the  cot,  putting  her  arm  protectingly 
over  his  blanket.  Peacefully  as  a  child  he 
slept;  Ruth's  eyelids  fluttered,  for  a  moment, 
she,  too,  would  rest. 

The  dawn  light  crept  stealthily  into  the 
tent,  Esteban  awoke;  slowly,  very  slowly,  he 
let  his  eyes  wander  about  the  tent— they 
rested  on  Ruth.  Wonderingly  he  looked  at 
her,  clutching  feebly  at  the  blanket  where 
her  hand  lay;  without  touching  so  much  as 
the  tip  of  one  of  her  fingers,  he  let  his  own 
hand  rest  beside  hers,  — and  fell  off  to  sleep, 

a  wrapt  smile  hovering  about  his  lips. 

******** 

"Senorita  Hastings  sat  here  last  night," 
said  Esteban,  while  Mrs.  Johnson  fed  him 
his  breakfast  of  gruel. 

"No,  Senor,  you  must  have  dreamed  that, 
I'm  the  only  nurse,"  was  her  intrepid  reply. 

The  sick  man  pushed  away  the  bowl  and 
fell  back,  closing  his  eyes,  tears  trickling 
231 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

down  his  cheeks. 

"Pobre  tonto!"  murmured  Juana,  turning 
away  with  the  bowl  that  she  might  not  see 
his  disappointment. 

It  was  not  the  moment  to  give  him  her 
opinion  of  los  Gringos,  later  she  meant  to  in 
spire  him  with  hatred;  meanwhile,  if  she 
could  manage  it,  he  should  never  know  that 
la  Senorita  had  been  there.  It  was  arranged 
that  Ruth  should  go  down  the  mountain  with 
Johnson  early  the  next  morning.  The  few 
hours  remaining,  she  herself  would  sit  guard 
at  the  tent  door — no  cat  ever  watched  for  a 
mouse  with  the  same  adroitness. 

Esteban  sat  up  the  next  morning  to  his 
breakfast,  he  seemed  brighter  and  stronger 
than  at  any  time.  "Put  the  blanket  around 
me  and  lead  me  to  the  door.  If  I  could  sit 
out  for  an  hour  or  so  in  that  sunshine,  I 
should  be  all  right  in  a  day  or  two;  nature 
would  heal  me,"  he  said  in  Spanish  to  Juana. 

Reluctantly  she  did  his  bidding,  so  far  as 
allowing  him  to  get  out  of  the  cot  and  into 
232 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

the  rocking  chair;  but  beyond  the  tent  he 
was  not  permitted  to  go. 

"Have  Senorita  Hastings  and  Mr.  Wood- 
bridge  gone?"  inquired  Esteban. 

At  that  moment  the  figure  of  Ruth,  ready 
to  start  on  her  journey,  her  white-breasted 
turban  thrown  back  on  her  golden  hair,  the 
blue  scarf  fastened  at  her  throat,  appeared 
in  the  tent. 

"I  am  going  now  Mrs.  Johnson,  I  have 
come  to  say  good-bye  to  you  and  to  Senor 
Ybarrando,"  said  Ruth  irresistibly,  gliding 
by  the  stalwart  Juana  to  Esteban. 

Timidly,  delightedly,  he  raised  his  dark 
eyes,  reaching  out  his  hand  to  her.  "I 
knew  that  you  were  still  here,"  he  slowly 
whispered. 

For  an  instant,  she  held  his  hand  and  did 
not  speak,  bending  over  him  with  the  strange 
new  light  in  her  eyes. 

Esteban's  old  feeling  of  gratitude,  of  hu 
mility  before  the  woman,  gave  way  to  one 
of  joy;  his  blood  hurried  through  his  veins 

233 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

with  the  sweep  of  a  life-current;  his  heart 
beat  almost  with  pain. 

Then  her  clear,  sweet  voice  broke  the  sus 
pense. 

"You  are  up  already,  Senor  Ybarrando ! 
What  miracle  has  Mrs.  Johnson  wrought?  I 
have  come  to  say  good-bye ;  you  will  reach 
home  almost  as  soon  as  I  shall.  No,  no,  do 
not  try  to  talk  yet;  let  it  be  only  'Adios'." 
Gently  pressing  his  hand  she  turned  from 
him  and  left  the  tent,  the  sick  man  murmur 
ing  "Adios". 

As  Ruth  departed,  Juana's  figure  loomed 
speecheless,  threatening,  in  one  corner  of  the 
tent;  and  an  expression  of  scorn  mingled 
with  pity,  filled  her  eyes  while  she  watched 
the  face  of  Ybarrando  bent  yearningly  for 
ward  from  his  chair,  following  the  girl,  as 
she  finally  disappeared  in  the  direction  of 
the  cabin. 


234 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SLOWLY,  very  slowly,  Don  Dolores 
regained    the    power    of    speech. 
The    stroke    of    paralysis    which 
had  made  the  left  leg  useless,  had 
enfeebled  the  mind;  yet  thoughts, 
especially     recollections     of     his     boyhood, 
crowded   and   pressed   for   utterance.      One 
day  a  single  word— "Esteban"  —  burst  forth, 
gradually  a  sentence  was  uncertainly  spoken. 
Francisca  heard  this  labored  speech  with  the 
same  feelings  of  delight  as  those  of  a  young 
mother  listening  to  the  lispings  of  a  child. 

All  his  life  Don  Dolores  had  been  given 
to  dreaming;  as  a  boy  his  nights  were  made 
glorious  with  visions  of  bear  killing  in  the 
mountains  back  of  the  rancho,  or  of  lassoing 
wild  horses  out  on  the  mesa  by  the  light 
house.  "And  the  best  part  of  it  all  was, 
that  those  dreams,  nina,  those  dreams  of  my 
boyhood  were  always  happy  ones,"  he  said 
235 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

to  Francisca.  Then  the  old  man,  with  dif 
ficult  speech,  would  recall  his  pet  story— the 
one  of  lassoing  the  herd  of  antelope  when  he 
was  a  boy  of  twelve.  So  the  weary  weeks 
passed  in  the  pent  up  room  where  Don 
Dolores  lived;  his  four  walls  receding  into 
green  canons;  the  narrow  window  panes 
radiating  sunshine  that  no  one  saw  save  the 
old  man. 

One  afternoon,  a  few  days  after  Este- 
ban  had  gone  to  the  mines,  Francisca  sat  by 
Don  Dolores'  chair,  her  head  bent  over  a 
bit  of  drawn-work,  her  thoughts  restless  and 
discontented. 

The  old  man  had  passed  a  wakeful  night, 
his  sleep  interrupted  by  vivid,  heart-rending 
scenes.  "Come  nearer,  nina,"  he  said  in  a 
whisper,  "I  had  a  strange  dream  last  night. 
I  was  back  at  the  rancho,  everything  was  dif 
ferent,  all  was  changed.  Hundreds  of  men 
were  at  work  plowing  up  the  fields;  your 
aunt's  fig  orchard  had  entirely  disappeared; 
and  where  the  old  adobe  stood,  there  was  a 
236 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

cheap  wooden  house  that  they  called  the 
'office'.  Here  they  told  me,  that  the  South 
ern  Pacific  had  been  given  permission  by  the 
government,"  —  at  this  point  Don  Dolores' 
voice  dwindled  to  a  hoarse  whisper,— "yes, 
they  said  by  the  government,  to  take  my  land 
free,  they  would  pay  me  nothing,  nothing, 
nina.  It  is  true,  they  paid  me  nothing  for  the 
tract,  the  quarry  next  to  el  chorro,"  and  he 
gave  Francisca  a  pathetic  glance.  "On  I 
went  in  my  dream,  out  to  the  light-house, 
where  I  saw  tall  poles  such  as  I  had  never 
seen  before,  and  the  bluff  was  guarded  by 
many  policemen,  soldiers  in  a  long  line  — 

Francisca  dropped  her  work  and  bent  over 
the  agitated  body,  taking  Don  Dolores'  cold 
hands  in  hers. 

"I  spoke  to  them,  nina,"  the  old  man  went 
on,  "asked  them  what  they  were  building, 
and  they  told  me  'oil  derricks'— oil  stock  had 
gone  up  very  much  since  the  company  had 
struck  oil.  The  policemen  alarmed  me;  yet 
knowing  that  the  hill  was  still  mine,  that  I 

237 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

had  never  sold  k— Esteban  loved  that  bluff 
and  I  had  always  tried  to  save  it  for  him  — 
I  walked  up  to  the  foreman,  but  was  instantly 
silenced  and  told  that  the  chief  of  police  in 
the  city  kept  a  body  of  men  on  the  rancho; 
that  force  would  be  used  if  they  were  inter 
rupted  in  their  work.  Nina,  I  want  to  go 
back  to  the  rancho  to  see  what  they  are  do 
ing.  When  will  Pedro  come?  Ask  him, 
nina,  if  the  derricks  are  on  the  hill,  on  Es- 
teban's  hill." 

Prostrated  by  his  long  speech,  Don 
Dolores  closed  his  eyes  and  lay  back  panting 
for  breath. 

"Tilito,  tilito,"  Francisca  tenderly  whis 
pered,  kissing  his  cold  forehead  upon  which 
the  perspiration  lay  in  heavy  beads,  and 
chafing  his  stiff  fingers,  "tilito,  it  was  only 
a  dream,  Esteban's  hill  is  still  there,  just  as 
it  always  was,  there  are  no  poles,  no  men  at 
the  rancho,"  then  she  softly  crossed  the 
room,  gave  him  a  powder,  and  he  soon  fell 
asleep. 

238 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Pedro  came  in  at  half  past  eight  to  relieve 
her.  "Do  you  know  who  went  to  the  mines 
with  your  handsome  cousin?"  he  queried  as 
they  stood  by  Don  Dolores'  chair. 

Francisca  was  sad,  subdued,  ready  to  cry 
on  the  slightest  provocation.  "No,  did  he 
take  someone  with  him?  When  he  came  to 
say  good-bye  to  us,  he  said  Mr.  Woodbridge 
was  very  ill,  that  was  all." 

"Well,  now  who  do  you  suppose  went  with 
him,  to  see  that  he  didn't  take  cold,  for 
there's  snow  on  the  trail  this  time  of  year; 
to  keep  Woodbridge  from  killing  him?" 
Pedro  gave  a  malicious  laugh  and  lolling 
against  the  window,  waited  a  response  from 
Francisca. 

"How  do  I  know?  Tell  me  Pedro,  I 
don't  feel  like  being  teased.  What  do  you 
mean  anyway?" 

"Well,  just  give  one  guess,"  persisted  the 
fellow,  and  his  coarse  face  shone  with  some 
thing  more  than  mischief.  "Someone  who 
never  rode  a  burro  up  a  snow  trail  before," 

239 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

he  chuckled. 

"Pedro  Vejar,  I  believe  you  mean  Senor- 
ita  Hastings,"  and  throwing  herself  down 
on  the  stool  by  Don  Dolores,  her  head 
against  the  arm  of  his  chair,  Francisca  burst 
into  tears. 

The  tears,  the  fiery  passion  of  the  girl, 
awed  the  fellow;  yet  this  was  the  moment  for 
him  to  gain  vantage;  he  started  toward  her. 

"Francisca,  Esteban  Ybarrando  knows 
what  he  is  doing;  he  doesn't  care  for  any 
body  in  the  world  but  that  woman;  and  it's 
a  shame  for  you  to  worry  your  beautiful 
head  about  him  a  day  longer.  There's 
someone  who  likes  you  and  who  doesn't  run 
after  the  Gringos." 

With  this  Pedro  drew  from  his  vest 
pocket,  a  small  box.  "I  thought  you'd  like 
it,  I  had  it  made  for  you  out  of  the  prettiest 
shell  there  was." 

Francisca  raised  a  petulant  face,  took  the 
box  reluctantly  and  opened  it.  There  lay  a 
shell  breastpin  carved  in  the  shape  of  an  oak 
240 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

leaf.  Pleased  as  a  child,  the  distress  van 
ished  from  her  face,  she  broke  into  smiles.  "It 
is  lovely,  I'll  wear  it  to  the  party  tomorrow 
night,"  she  said,  fastening  it  on  her  dress. 

Pedro  too,  was  pleased;  but  not  satisfied. 
"People  say  in  Luicito,  that  the  manager 
isn't  sick,  that  Esteban  and  Senorita  Hast 
ings  have  run  away." 

At  his  words  Francisca  sprang  like  a  ti 
gress  toward  him.  Pedro  slunk  back  into 
the  alcove  behind  the  door.  "Pedro  Vejar, 
if  you  lie,  I  kill  you,"  she  whispered  in  Span 
ish,  and  following  him  she  stood  before  him 
riveting  him  with  her  eyes  of  flame. 

Intimidated,  yet  obstinate,  Pedro  held  his 
ground;  for  there  was  much  more  to  dis 
close.  "Old  Chavez  saw  Senorita  Hastings 
talking  for  an  hour  with  your  cousin  the 
morning  before  he  left,  and"  —  Pedro  drew 
a  little  apart,  the  girl's  quick  breathing,  the 
agony  in  her  face  smote  him  — "yesterday 
Mr.  Woodbridge  came  back  alone." 

Don  Dolores  awoke.  "Nina,"  he  whis- 
241 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

pered  faintly,  "come  here  nina.  Tonight  it 
has  been  a  beautiful  dream.  You  and  Este- 
ban  were  there;  married,  living  in  peace,  hap 
pily  at  the  rancho,  in  the  adobe  his  grandfath 
er  built  with  his  own  hands.  Your  children 
romped  over  the  hills,  played  at  hide  and 
seek  in  the  tall  mustard,  sat  about  the  fire 
every  night  for  the  Rosary  as  in  my  child 
hood.  It  was  all  joy  and  contentment;  no 
one  was  poor,  all  had  enough  clothes, 
enough  to  eat,  none  were  miserable,  wretch 
ed,  unhappy.  Nina,  closer  nina,  kiss  me  — 
once  again  for  Esteban.  You  will  be  his 
good  and  faithful  wife,  love  Esteban?" 

Great  tears  streamed  down  the  girl's 
cheeks,  "Call  them  Pedro,  quick,  tilito  is  dy- 
ing!" 

Pedro,  hearing  the  dying  words,  as  if 
reprimanded  by  the  Almighty,  fled  from  the 

room. 

******** 

When   the    Rodmans    returned   from   the 
City  of  Mexico  and  found  Ruth's  note  say- 
242 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

ing  that  Woodbridge  was  dangerously  ill, 
and  that  she  had  gone  to  the  Jesus  Maria 
Mines  to  nurse  him,  Mrs.  Rodman  was 
thrown  into  a  pitiable  state  of  mind.  She 
was  both  shocked  and  alarmed.  Their  jour 
ney  home  had  been  retarded  by  frequent 
quarantines,  due  to  the  plague  scare;  and 
Carolyn  at  once  feared  the  worst. 

"I  heard  the  conductor  say  that  the 
plague  had  found  its  way  into  several  of  the 
mining  camps;  perhaps  Gerald  Woodbridge 
has  caught  it!  this  couldn't  be!"  she  said  to 
her  husband,  calamitous  forebodings  in  her 
voice. 

Usually  Rodman  was  very  sympathetic, 
but  on  this  occasion  he  offered  his  wife  no 
consolation.  He  felt  that  he  needed  it  him 
self.  Rodman  cherished  next  to  his  par 
ticular  grievance  —  the  "Philippine  Ques 
tion",  his  sorrow  caused  by  Woodbridge's 
inappreciation  of  Ruth.  The  selfishness  of 
his  future  brother-in-law  lay  heavily  on  his 
heart  and  mind;  he  despised  him  for  his 
243 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

treatment  of  Ruth,  and  daily  prayed  for 
some  intervening  circumstance  to  prevent 
the  marriage.  The  thought  of  the  girl's 
risking  her  life  to  save  Woodbridge  frenzied 
him;  even  his  wife's  distress  was  insufficient 
reason  for  his  holding  his  peace. 

His  present  indignation  served  as  an  ano 
dyne  to  Mrs.  Rodman.  Already  she  had 
discovered  that  Rodman  had  a  temper; 
which  when  roused  was  as  much  greater 
than  her  own  petulancy  as  a  mighty  moun 
tain  torrent  is  greater  than  a  waterfall.  His 
violent  mood  subdued  her. 

Rodman  paced  vehemently  up  and  down 
the  veranda,  denouncing  Woodbridge's  ac 
tions  and  finally  deciding  that  he  would  join 
them  at  the  camp  at  the  risk  of  his  life.  At 
this  Mrs.  Rodman  burst  into  fresh  weeping 
and  it  was  not  until  the  next  morning  that 
either  was  calm  enough  to  discuss  what  was 
the  best  thing  to  do. 

"I'll  go  down  to  the  works  and  see  what 
they  can  tell  me  there.  Ybarrando  will  be 
244 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

likely  to  know  all  about  it."  They  had 
walked  out  after  breakfast  into  the  orchard, 
and  as  they  stood  there,  suddenly  saw  the  tall 
figure  of  Woodbridge  stalking  up  the  garden 
path. 

"The  situation  is  preposterous,"  angrily 
declared  Woodbridge,  as  Rodman  led  him 
up  to  the  veranda,  where  Mrs.  Rodman  was 
sitting,  anxious  and  pale. 

With  the  bias  of  defeated  purpose  and 
jealous  rancor,  Woodbridge  endeavored  to 
explain  Ruth's  actions.  "You  mustn't  blame 
me,  Mrs.  Rodman,  I  was  perfectly  help 
less,"  he  said.  "Ruth  persisted  that  it  was 
her  duty  to  stay  and  nurse  that  confounded 
Mexican;  that  if  he  were  to  die,  it  would 
be  on  her  conscience  forever,  and  a  lot  of 
talk  like  that.  I  could  neither  reason  with 
her  nor  dissuade  her.  I  never  knew  Ruth  to 
be  so  headstrong.  It  has  about  used  me  up; 
I  am  half  sick,  I  ought  to  be  in  bed  this  min 
ute,"  and  he  got  up  to  leave.  "Here's  her 
note,"  and  Woodbridge  handed  Mrs.  Rod- 

245 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

man  her  letter. 

While  she  read,  Rodman  went  over  and 
stood  close  by  Woodbridge.  "Why  didn't 
you  stay  with  the  girl?"  he  demanded.  "Un 
der  the  circumstances,  it  was  hardly  the  thing 
for  you  to  leave  her  there,  was  it?"  he  spoke 
in  scathing  tones,  clenching  his  hand  till  his 
seal  ring  cut  his  fingers,  and  looking  Wood- 
bridge  squarely  in  the  eye. 

Woodbridge  reached  for  his  hat  on  the 
veranda  railing. 

"I  am  due  in  the  City  of  Mexico  days 
ago.  This  whole  affair  has  interfered  with 
most  important  business  negotiations.  Ybar- 
rando's  illness  necessitated  my  return  here; 
it  was  simply  out  of  the  question  for  me  to 
hang  around  an  hour  longer  at  the  mines. 
Ruth  has  acted  in  an  altogether  inexcusable 
fashion.  From  beginning  to  end,  the  whole 
proceeding  has  been  a  matter  of  impulse.  I 
assured  her  that  Ybarrando  would  have 
every  attention;  had  to  pay  a  doctor  fifteen 
dollars  to  go  up  from  Nogales,  what  more 
246 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

could  a  man  do?"  asked  Woodbridge  in  ag 
grieved  tone. 

"The  one  only  thing  that  a  man  should 
have  done— to  have  stayed  with  her,"  fierce 
ly  retorted  Rodman,  going  over  to  his  wife's 
side  and  taking  the  letter  she  offered  him. 

"Eben,  you  must  go  after  Ruth  at  once," 
said  Mrs.  Rodman,  rising,  and  bowing 
freezingly  at  Woodbridge  as  she  moved 
away.  Rodman  said  a  blunt  good  morning, 
and  followed  her. 

Woodbridge  stood  discomfited.  He  had 
only  counted  upon  himself  as  being  the  in 
jured  one,  and  was  not  prepared  for  this  re 
ception.  Lighting  a  cigarette,  he  medita 
tively  drew  on  his  gloves  and  walked  toward 
the  town. 

"It's  perfectly  shocking!"  said  Carolyn, 
as  her  husband  entered  the  room.  "Ruth 
Hastings  alone  in  a  mining  camp !  There  is 
something  at  the  bottom  of  this,  Eben.  Ger 
ald  Woodbridge  is  killing  her.  For  seven 
years  I  have  watched  Ruth,  watched  her  pa- 
247 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

tience,  her  devotion  to  that  man;  seen  her 
sacrificing  other  interests,  other  friendships, 
other  offers  of  marriage  and  living  on  oc 
casional  attentions,  brief  letters  and  one  visit 
in  all  this  time.  Determined  she  has  been 
to  be  true,  never  permitting  me  to  utter  a 
word  against  him.  Something  has  hap 
pened  that  she  so  disregards  him  now.  But 
Eben,  think  of  that  child  alone  in  a  mining 
camp  nursing  that  Mexican  Ybarrando!" 
The  last  words  were  uttered  with  a  moan  of 
agony  and  Mrs.  Rodman  lay  back  on  the 
couch  overcome. 

"Thank  God,  that  it  isn't  that  selfish  pu 
sillanimity  Woodbridge,"  said  Rodman,  sit 
ting  down  beside  his  wife  and  holding  her 
hands  in  his.  "Let  us  read  the  note  again," 
and  he  began  to  read  Ruth's  letter  aloud, 
but  his  wife  interrupted  him. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Eben!"  she  cried. 

"I  mean  just  what  I  say,"  he  answered. 

Carolyn   disengaged   her   hands,    sat   up 
right  among  the  pillows,  staring  at  him. 
248 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"Certainly  you  do  not  approve  of  what 
Ruth  is  doing?  To  have  gone  to  nurse  Ger 
ald  Woodbridge  was  a  shocking  enough 
thing  for  a  Hastings  to  do;  but  to  stay  be 
hind  to  nurse  the  sick  Mexican— Eben!" 
The  invalid  leaned  forward  looking  up  into 
her  husband's  face,  each  one  of  her  delicate 
features  strained,  and  her  eyes  filling  with 
hot  tears. 

"Eben  Rodman,  I  would  rather  have 
heard  that  Ruth  Hastings  had  the  plague 
herself." 

For  an  instant,  Rodman  looked  pityingly 
at  his  wife;  then  he  drew  himself  up,  and 
raising  his  voice,  said,  "Carolyn,  this  mo 
ment  I  would  rather  think  of  Ruth  Hastings 
out  at  the  mining  camp  helping  to  nurse  the 
Mexican  Ybarrando  than  to  be  nursing 
Gerald  Woodbridge.  He  is  infinitely  more 
worthy  a  woman's  devotion,  and  I  mean 
what  I  say," 

Rodman  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"I  see  too,  the  girl's  point  of  view.  Un- 
249 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

der  the  circumstances  she  had  a  right  to  stay, 
a  perfect  right.  She  will  have  her  own  story 
to  tell,  she  says  she  will  be  home  Monday. 
But  I  shall  go  out  to  Nogales  to  meet  her, 
start  today,"  and  Rodman  consulted  the 
morning  paper  that  Anita  had  brought  in 
with  the  mail. 


250 


CHAPTER  XVII 


1 


Ruth,     awakening    to    the 
knowledge  of  her  love  for  this 
man  of  a  different  race,  differ 
ent    environment,    different    life 
and  ideals,  should  feel  no  hesi 
tancy  in  her  heart,  no  questions  in  her  mind, 
was  an  impossibility. 

As  she  came  down  the  trail  behind  John 
son,  the  intoxication  that  always  comes  with 
a  first  great  love  was  upon  her.  She  thought 
of  no  one,  of  nothing  but  Esteban;  she  went 
over  every  trifling  detail  of  the  room  in  the 
cabin,  where  Juana  would  have  him  moved 
that  day;  she  reiterated  each  word  he  had 
spoken  in  his  delirum,  radiant  in  the  hope 
that  "Mi  queridita"  might  mean  herself— at 
least  it  could  not  be  Francisca — in  their  inter 
course  Francisca  was  the  only  woman  whom 
Esteban  had  mentioned  especially.  There 
was  a  moral  halt  in  her  present  mood.  In 
251 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

her  thinking  she  evaded  Woodbridge  and 
her  relations  to  him  as  the  wild  thing  evades 
the  hunter's  cry;  her  spirit  as  well  as  her 
body  traveled  through  solitary  canons, 
across  green  mesa  levels  companioned  by 
Esteban's  spirit;  his  thoughts  leaped  to  meet 
hers;  his  sympathy  reached  out  loving 
hands. 

Ruth  divined  that  Juana  Johnson  would  lie 
to  suit  herself,  and  not  to  her  advantage; 
she  almost  wished  that  she  had  spoken,  said 
something  to  let  Esteban  know  her  feelings; 
if  he  had  been  stronger  that  she  might  have 
talked  with  him !  yet  must  she  not  first  break 
her  vows  to  Woodbridge  before  she  dis 
closed  her  love  to  Esteban? 

When  Rodman  met  Ruth  at  Nogales,  he 
said  little,  but  both  his  voice  and  manner 
conveyed  approval  of  her  action. 

The   bliss   that   Ruth   had    felt   since   the 

midnight  revelation  at  the  camp,  forsook  her 

only  when  she  came  into  the  presence  of  her 

sister    Carolyn.      Caroyln    meant   her   past. 

252 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

How  would  she  take  the  breaking  of  her 
engagement?  What  did  she  think  of  her 
having  remained  alone  at  the  camp?  Some 
thing  in  the  tone  of  her  sister's  voice,  as  she 
greeted  her,  made  Ruth  fearful— fearful 
lest  the  great  new  love  should  be  taken  from 
her.  There  was  no  cowardice  in  Ruth's 
present  feelings;  she  was  merely  conscious 
of  the  fact  that  Carolyn  never  could  be 
brought  to  think  of  Esteban  as  their  equal; 
and  that  she  and  her  sister,  once  insepar 
able,  were  forever  estranged.  The  meeting 
between  them  was  an  emotional  cataclysm. 
One  look  into  the  patrician  face  of  her  sis 
ter,  and  Ruth's  old  life— the  protected,  ex 
clusive  childhood;  the  college  career,  where, 
despite  the  boast  of  democracy,  lines  were 
drawn  and  defined  and  reasons  given  for  in 
equalities  of  race  and  classes  of  society;  the 
months  passed  in  sanatoriums  and  health 
resorts — the  breeding  places  of  superficial  and 
effete  conceptions  of  people  and  life — all  this 
—rushed  over  her,  and  quick  as  a  flash  came 

253 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

the  resolve  not  to  mention  at  present  her 
love  for  Esteban. 

Carolyn  took  Ruth  in  her  arms.  "Dar 
ling,  at  last  you  are  here,  safe  and  well.  Oh, 
Ruth  I  have  gone  through  tortures  at  the 
thought  of  you  alone  there,  in  the  mining 
camp!" 

"I  wasn't  alone,  dear,  I  had  a  mountain- 
giantess  as  chaperone,"  and  for  an  instant 
the  sweet,  girlish  laugh  rang  out,  and  Ruth 
reached  up,  kissing  the  elder  woman's  pale 
forehead. 

A  faint  smile  hovered  about  Carolyn's 
thin  lips.  "In  the  first  place  Ruth,  it  was 
the  wildest  thing  for  you  to  have  gone  to 
nurse  Gerald  Woodbridge,  when  you 
thought  he  had  the  plague;  it  was  selfish  too 
Ruth,  knowing  my  love  for  you,  and  the 
certain  risks— I  don't  understand  how  you 
could  have  done  it." 

"Is  it  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you  Caro 
lyn,  you  who  have  always  anticipated  my 
thoughts,  that  this  was  my  last  throw,  my 
254 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

final  test  to  prove  Gerald  Woodbridge's  su 
preme  selfishness  — and  I  have  proven  it! 
He  was  not  so  much  as  glad  to  see  me !  It 
is  all  over,  Carolyn.  Gerald  loves  but  one 
person  in  this  universe.  I  broke  the  engage 
ment  in  my  own  mind  when  I  refused  to  re 
turn  with  him  from  the  mines.  It  has  taken 
seven  years  to  bring  me  to  this."  Ruth 
paused  for  a  moment.  "Carolyn,  I  feel  like 
one  who  has  been  scattering  seed  over  the 
desert." 

They  sat  together,  their  hands  in  one  an 
other's.  Ruth's  calmness,  the  look  of  joy 
on  her  face,  surprised  Carolyn. 

"You  wouldn't  allow  me  to  speak,  Ruth." 
she  said  at  last.  Long  ago  I  recognized 
Gerald  Woodbridge's  character.  Eben  de- 
spies  him.  Thank  Heaven,  you  did  not 
marry  him !  You  can  go  back  to  Boston  and 
stay  with  Judith;  perhaps  go  abroad  this 
summer."  Carolyn  went  over  and  stood 
looking  out  of  the  window.  "There's  noth 
ing  to  keep  you  here,  for  the  first  time  in 

255 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

your  life  dear,  you  can  feel  free,  get  ready 
to  go  at  once." 

The  moment  had  come  for  Ruth  to  speak 
of  Esteban,  mention  at  least  his  name;  it 
was  her  due  to  him.  Carolyn,  absorbed  in 
the  topic  of  the  broken  engagement,  had  for 
gotten  even  to  inquire  about  the  sick  Mexi 
can.  Ruth  waited,  hoping  that  she  would, 
she  looked  toward  Carolyn.  The  slender 
stately  figure,  the  transparent  profile,  the 
faultless  coils  of  hair,  the  sweep  of  her  soft, 
rich  garments,  the  lace  falling  over  the  ta 
pering  fingers— something  in  the  very  gen 
tleness  rebuffed  her.  Later,  when  she  and 
Esteban  had  met  and  revealed  themselves  to 
each  other— then  Carolyn  should  know 
everything. 

Indeed  several  days  had  elapsed  before  it 
occurred  to  Carolyn  to  ask  after  Esteban. 
Naturally  she  was  not  interested  and  was 
satisfied  when  Rodman  remarked  that  Ruth 
had  left  him  out  of  danger. 

256 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

During  his  convalescence,  Esteban  was 
easy  prey  to  the  vindictive,  American-hating 
Juana.  As  he  paced  to  and  fro  in  the  sun 
shine,  she  was  always  close  at  hand,  usually 
on  her  own  little  porch  sorting  yerba.  Ju 
ana  was  aware  that  her  time  was  short — a 
week  and  Ybarrando  would  be  gone — if  it 
were  in  her  power,  he  should  not  go  back  to 
the  States  to  be  insulted  as  she  had  been;  and 
then — la  Senorita  was  there. 

"Senor  Ybarrando,  why  do  you  not  pre 
fer  to  live  in  Mexico?"  she  asked  Esteban 
as  he  stopped  to  rest  on  the  steps.  "When 
Karl  is  rich,  we  shall  go  to  live  in 
the  City  of  Mexico  among  our  own, 
never  in  California.  Once  long  ago, 
he  took  me  for  a  week  to  Los  Angeles.  I 
was  looking  about  for  an  old  friend,  and 
when  I  inquired  on  one  street,  they  said, 
'Only  white  people  live  here.'  Senor,  /  have 
not  forgotten  that,"  Juana  stopped  sorting 
yerba,  stood  up,  and  looked  at  him. 

Esteban  turned  pale  with  indignation;  the 
257 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

incident  recalled  a  similar  one  in  his  own  ex 
perience.  He  remembered  the  time  that  an 
ugly  American  fellow  in  the  office  had 
flaunted  at  him  almost  the  identical  lang 
uage.  He  knew  that  Juana's  rankling  spite 
was  well  grounded;  that  it  had  more  reason 
for  being  that  she  dreamed.  "They  make  no 
distinctions— the  Americans,  — they  take  us 
all  for  black  people,"  the  benign  Don 
Dolores  had  once  said  to  Esteban,  in  deep 
bitterness  of  soul. 

"In  California  they  all  feel  the  same  to 
ward  us;  there  is  not  one  of  them  different, 
not  even  your  sweet  Senorita,"  broke  forth 
Juana  two  mornings  before  Esteban  left  the 
camp.  "She  and  Senor  Woodbridge  had  a 
quarrel;  she  stayed  behind  just  to  torment 
him;  that  is  how  she  happened  to  be  here 
when  you  were  sick.  Those  American  ladies 
treat  their  men  shamefully.  She  was  a  sly  lit 
tle  creature,  I  expect  he  will  have  a  hard  time 
with  her,"  and  the  Mexican  woman  flung 
an  insinuating  glance  at  Esteban. 

258 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

Not  feeling  called  upon  to  defend  Ruth, 
Esteban  walked  reticently  away. 

Esteban  had  had  little  personal  experi 
ence;  but  he  had  a  great  nature.  Of  the  hu 
manizing  influences  of  life— literature,  art, 
and  the  intercourse  with  superior  minds  that 
brings  with  it  culture  and  refinement — of 
these  he  had  been  deprived;  poverty  too,  had 
laid  its  deadening  weight,  almost  from  the 
beginning  of  life.  Yet  the  elemental  man 
hood  in  him  was  too  fine  and  strong  to  perish. 
It  had  been  nourished  without  environment 
—  growing  like  the  glorious  yucca,  in  spite 
of  its  surroundings;  developing  by  some 
thing  from  within.  A  belief  in  the  sacred- 
ness  of  life,  in  the  sanctity  of  living  things, 
their  right  to  existence,  had  come  long  ago 
to  Esteban  when,  late  one  afternoon,  as  the 
light  faded  among  the  trees,  he  shot  a  doe 
—the  appealing  look  in  her  dying  eyes  had 
pierced  his  heart.  He  was  only  eighteen 
then,  but  the  soul  of  the  man  had  leaped  into 
full  consciousness.  It  was  this  sense  of  the 

2.59 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

value  of  all  life,  and  of  human  life  in  par 
ticular,  that  had  intensified  the  naturally 
strong  race  feeling  in  Esteban;  justice  as 
well  as  love,  entered  into  his  passion. 

In  Ruth  he  had  found  this  same  quick 
recognition  of  the  holiness  of  people  and 
things.  Her  intense  love  of  nature — of  the 
things  of  the  sod  and  the  air,  had  been  one 
secret  of  their  congeniality;  her  sympathy 
for  his  race  had  been  consoling,  heaven-sent. 
But  the  thought  had  eaten  in  upon  him,  that 
Woodbridge  out  of  the  way,  even  then,  this 
American  girl  could  not  be  different  from 
the  rest  of  her  race ;  sometimes  he  had  laughed 
grimly,  calling  himself  demented,  to  suppose 
that  she  could  love  him,  a  despised  Califor- 
nian,  an  obscure  Mexican.  Since  they  had 
been  thrown  so  closely  together,  his  love  for 
her  had  taken  supreme  possession  of  him; 
the  face  of  Ruth,  the  look  in  the  sweet  brown 
eyes  as  she  bade  him  good-bye,  stayed  with 
him,  haunting  him  day  and  night;  until  that 
instant,  his  love  had  been  nurtured  without  ex- 
260 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

pectation— he  had  simply  kept  on  loving.  He 
clung  to  the  look  as  a  drowning  man  clings 
to  the  drifting  weed,  sinking  the  while.  He 
longed  again  to  be  near  her;  but  in  his  pres 
ent  state  of  physical  depletion,  he  dared  not 
return,  he  was  too  unnerved;  the  mere 
thought  of  meeting  her  filled  him  with  trans 
port,  ecstacy. 

He  wrote  a  letter  to  Woodbridge  saying 
that  a  flattering  business  offer  had  come  to 
him  from  Chihuahua;  and  without  satisfy 
ing  the  curiosity  of  Juana,  he  left  the  camp, 
feeble,  recking  nothing. 

At  Nogales  he  happened  upon  a  newspa 
per,  and  in  it  read  of  the  death  of  Don  Do 
lores;  it  had  occurred  a  week  ago.  Esteban 
was  deeply  moved;  the  letters  were  perhaps 
on  the  way,  but  the  funeral  was  over;  the 
last  tie  to  hold  him  to  the  States  was  broken, 
there  was  nothing  to  call  him  back.  Then  the 
thought  of  the  girl  Francisca  came  into  his 
mind.  She  had  always  been  his  father's  spe 
cial  charge;  he  must  return  and  see  that  she 
261 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

was  provided  for. 
******* 

After  Don  Dolores'  death,  Julio  Ybarran- 
do's  wife,  took  her  children  and  joined  her 
husband  in  the  north. 

Francisca  had  refused  to  go  with  her  rel 
atives,  and  had  found  a  home  with  Antonia 
Garcia.  Antonia  had-  met  Francisca  at  a 
friend's  house.  To  be  sure  she  had  known 
Don  Dolores  Ybarrando,  was  Francisca  the 
niece  of  that  man?  Antonia,  the  descendant 
of  Governor  Alvarado,  sniffed  good  blood, 
she  would  take  the  girl  in;  besides,  Anto 
nia  had  nothing  left  but  the  adobe  and  her 
safrano  roses,  and  Francisca  would  pay  for 
her  room  and  board. 

Francisca  liked  Antonia  to  talk  with  her 
while  she  adorned  herself  to  go  to  the  par 
ties.  The  old  woman  would  gaze  admiringly 
at  the  soft  olive  arms  and  abundant  hair; 
crushing  in  her  own  coppery  cheeks  with  both 
fists,  she  would  say  in  Spanish  to  Francisca, 
"Blanco,  bianco,  I  was  not  always  like  this — 
262 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

this  is  old  age,  sickness,  girl,  see  1"  and 
drawing  down  her  stocking  she  would  point 
to  her  ankle,  that  was  as  fair  as  Francisca's 
own.  The  girl  wrould  look,  now  at  the  ankle, 
now  at  the  parchment  cheeks,  thinking  with 
horror  that  perhaps  sickness,  old  age,  might 
so  change  her  beautiful  face  some  day! 

Francisca  had  been  with  Antonia  ten  days. 
Night  after  night  the  old  woman  waited  for 
the  girl  to  come  home;  so  far,  she  had  asked 
no  questions,  but  she  feared  the  worst;  she 
suspected  los  Americanos  who  always  escort 
ed  the  girl;  and  they  stood  in  awe  of  the 
withered  beldame,  who,  lamp  upraised  in  her 
arm,  stood  waiting  at  the  door  for  Francis 
ca,  with  eyes  burning  like  flakes  of  flame  in 
her  sunken  cheeks. 

Tonight,  Francisca  was  very  late.  There 
were  just  three  cigarettes  left  on  the  top  of 
her  bible,  looking  furtively  at  them,  Antonia 
selected  the  thickest,  struck  a  match,  and  be 
gan  to  smoke.  A  knock  at  the  door — it  was 
not  el  Americano  this  time,  but  one  of  her 
263 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

own  countrymen,  the  son  of  her  former 
friend,  Don  Dolores  Ybarrando.  They  ex 
changed  cordial  greetings,  Esteban  taking  a 
seat  by  the  table  opposite  Antonia. 

"Francisca  will  come  any  moment;  you  are 
the  cousin  Esteban,  very  often  she  talks  of 
you,"  said  Antonia  in  good  Spanish,  lighting 
another  cigarette,  drawing  her  chair  closer 
to  Esteban  and  looking  up  into  his  face. 

"Like  your  mother,  Dona  Tranquilina, 
who  was  Mexican  like  me;  you  have  read  his 
tory,  you  know  Montezuma,  una  sangre — 
one  blood  in  the  Aztec — one  blood.  All  is 
changed — now  United  States;  first  the 
Indian,  then  the  Spaniard,  then  the  United 
States,"  and  throwing  away  the  remnant  of 
her  cigarette,  she  relentlessly  counted  off  each 
name  on  her  bony  fingers. 

Restless  as  he  was  for  Francisca  to  come, 
Esteban  could  not  help  being  diverted  by  the 
tragic  earnestness  in  the  old  woman's  manner 
and  words. 

"In  California  the  Mexicans  were  afraid 
264 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

of  los  Americanos,"  she  went  on,  "they  start 
ed  to  Sonora,  my  husband  went,  he  had  no 
horse,  the  roads,"  and  Antonia  made  imagin 
ary  curves  and  tortuous  paths  with  her  long 
arms.  "Many,  many  died  on  the  way,  my 
husband — no  agua,  no  agua— no  water,  no 
water,  O,  O,  O!"  and  the  last  words  came 
from  the  attenuated  body  like  an  elegiac 
moan. 

"Be  comforted,  Sefiora  Garcia,"  said  Es- 
teban,  "if  your  husband  had  lived  and  re 
mained  here,  he  would  have  been  miserably 
poor  and  unhappy.  The  old  Californians 
are  all  gone;  those  of  us  who  are  left  are 
treated  as  an  inferior  race,  an  outcast  people; 
we  shall  soon  be  extinct,  all  gone!" 

"Si,  si  young  man,  you  are  right,  it  is  true, 
I  know,  si,  si,"  and  Antonia  gave  a  despairing 
sigh,  her  head  bent  forward  to  hear  more. 

But  Esteban  took  out  his  watch,  it  was  al 
ready  twelve  and  Francisca  not  yet  come ;  he 
stood  up,  looking  about  the  barren  room,  he 
must  take  Francisca  away  at  once,  tomorrow. 
265 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"I  worry  when  the  girl  stays  so  late,"  said 
Antonia  in  response  to  his  anxious  look.  "He 
comes  every  night  this  week,  el  Americano,  he 
brings  her  a  gold  necklace  and  many  rings; 
Francisca  smiles  and  whispers  to  me,  'He  is 
very  rich';  she  talks  always  the  American  to 
him  and  he  laughs  very  loud.  I  say  to  Fran 
cisca,  Why  do  you  not  speak  the  Spanish  any 
more?  but  she  only  smiles." 

It  was  now  one  o'clock,  and  Francisca  still 
away.  Antonia's  volubility  had  revealed  all, 
and  more  than  Esteban  wished  to  hear.  Sev 
eral  times  Antonia  got  up  and  went  to  look 
out  of  the  door. 

"She  has  never  been  so  late,"  and  the  old 
woman  sat  down,  folding  and  smoothing  a 
green  silk  handkerchief  that  in  her  excite 
ment  she  had  thrown  off  her  head. 

Frowning,  absorbed,  Ybarrando  bade  her 
a  courteous  good-night,  and  left,  saying  that 
he  would  come  tomorrow  to  see  Francisca. 

The  light  in  Antonia's  black  eyes  was  pur 
ple  in  its  intensity,  as  she  waited  in  the  door- 
266 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

way,  listening  to  the  retreating  footsteps  of 
Esteban.  "If  I  had  told  him  all,  he  would 
kill  el  Americano;  then  they  would  send  the 
son  of  Don  Dolores  to  prison  to  San  Quen- 
tin— the  son  of  an  Ybarrando  to  San  Quen- 
tin  1"  and  drawing  up  her  broken  figure,  she 
turned  with  dignity  into  the  old  adobe. 

As  Esteban  reached  the  Plaza,  a  figure 
moved  stealthily  along  the  walls  of  the  dark 
church.  It  was  Pedro  Vejar.  He  turned 
in  the  direction  of  Antonia's  house.  Once 
he  stopped,  looking  about  furtively,  then 
drew  from  his  breast  a  short  handled  knife, 
felt  of  the  blade,  and  quickly  returned  it  to 
his  pocket,  a  murderous  light  gleaming  in 
his  eyes.  For  many  weeks  at  the  same  hour 
he  had  gone  this  way,  but  he  had  never  met 
them— Francisca  and  el  Americano— would 
he  tonight?  if  not,  there  was  tomorrow;  but 
in  the  distorted  brain  of  the  young  Mexican, 
inflamed  by  liquor  and  his  wild  passion  for 
Francisca,  tomorrow  was  an  eternity  away. 
At  last,  spent  by  watching  and  rage,  he  tum 
bled  into  a  doorway  and  fell  asleep. 
267 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WOODBRIDGE     had     returned 
from    Mexico.      With    confi 
dent   spirits   he   went   to   the 
rancho   to    see    Ruth    and   to 
tell  her  of  his  new   success. 
Since  leaving  her  at  the  mines,  he  had  re 
ceived   no   word   directly    from   her;   Ybar- 
rando's   note,   however,   had   informed   him 
that    Ruth    had    gone    home.      When    he 
reached  the  rancho,  he  was  disappointed  to 
find  Ruth  out.    Anita  said  that  she  had  start 
ed  at  noon  for  El  Socorro. 

Climbing  the  foot-hill  back  of  the  adobe, 
he  made  his  way  to  the  lighthouse,  stopping 
now  and  then  to  fleck  the  dust  from  his  im 
maculate  trousers,  or  to  light  a  fresh  cigar 
ette.  Presently  the  uplands  of  waving  mus 
tard  stretched  before  him;  beyond  the  yel 
low  haze,  far  in  the  distance,  he  descried  a 
woman's  figure— the  figure  of  Ruth  moving 
268 


along  by  the  campo  santo. 

Ruth  had  been  walking  briskly,  and  as  she 
came  to  the  little  burying  ground,  she  slack 
ened  her  pace  and  turned  into  the  inclosure. 
It  was  closely  crowded  with  graves,  most  of 
them  marked  by  rude  white  crosses,  and  all 
of  them  decorated  with  something— wreaths, 
shells,  broken  lamps,  worn  out  clocks,  bits 
of  jcrockery — grotesque  but  touching  sym 
bols  of  the  lives  of  those  who  slept  beneath 
them.  From  among  the  graves,  Ruth  sought 
one  newly  made — the  mound  of  Don  Do 
lores.  She  went  up  and  stood  close  by  it,  the 
tears  filling  her  eyes.  All  the  way  along, 
her  thoughts  had  been  of  Esteban;  she 
imagined  his  poignant  grief,  his  disappoint 
ment  at  having  been  away,  when  he  heard  of 
Don  Dolores'  death;  she  thought  of  his  pain 
when  he  heard  of  Francisca's  disgrace.  Only 
that  morning  Anita  had  told  her  that  Doctor 
Vejar  had  been  spreading  the  gossip  about 
Luicito,  that  Francisca  was  leading  a  life  of 
shame  in  the  city,  with  a  rich  profligate 
269 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

American;  that  she  flaunted  her  conquest 
openly — Anita's  mother  had  come  face  to 
face  with  her  on  the  streets  with  el  Ameri 
cano. 

So  absorbed  was  Ruth  that  she  did  not 
hear  Woodbridge  until  he  was  close  up  to 
her.  "You  are  back!"  she  exclaimed, 
"When  did  you  come?  We  have  had  no 
message  since  your  letter  of  two  weeks  ago." 

He  leaned  to  kiss  her,  but  she  drew  back 
gently,  firmly,  crossing  over  to  the  road, 
where  at  that  moment  the  weather  beaten 
coach  that  travelled  daily  between  the  vil 
lage  and  El  Socorro  was  lumbering  by. 

"The  dust  is  abominable,  it  might  be  a 
good  idea  to  get  into  the  coach  and  drive 
home,  we  can  talk  better  there,"  proposed 
Woodbridge,  disconcerted  by  Ruth's  man 
ner. 

"No,  it  is  well  enough  here,"  and  Ruth 
walked  before  him  toward  the  bluff. 

Through  the  golden  mustard,  vistas  of  the 
blue  sea  flashed,  far  away  the  mountains  rose, 
270 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

dreamily  indistinct.  As  they  came  within 
sight  of  the  lighthouse  the  mustard  bloom 
grew  sparse,  and  only  the  short  grass  and  cac 
tus  gave  a  touch  of  life  to  the  treeless  bluff. 
They  had  now  reached  the  promontory.  Ruth 
still  kept  a  little  in  front  of  Woodbridge, 
walking  out  she  stood  alone  on  the  escarp 
ment;  above,  below,  and  around  them  was 
the  omnipotence  of  space. 

"We've  come  to  the  end  of  things  now," 
remarked  Woodbridge,  in  a  prosaic  voice, 
catching  up  with  her. 

"Yes,  it  is  the  end,"  slowly  repeated  the 
girl,  looking  out  to  the  illimitable  waste  be 
fore  them;  then  turning  her  brave  eyes  to 
him,  she  continued,  "I  know  what  you  have 
come  to  say  to  me,  but  I  cannot  listen  to  you ; 
once  I  thought  I  loved  you,  I  threw  myself  at 
your  feet,  waiting  weary  years;  in  return  for 
this,  today  you  come  to  offer  me,  not  a  living, 
breathing  man,  but  a  machine;  in  place  of 
yourself,  gold.  That  which  every  true  wom 
an  can  alone  be  satisfied  with— love  and  com- 
271 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

radeship,  you  are  now  unable  to  give  me." 

Woodbridge  looked  out  at  her  from  his 
narrow,  cold  eyes,  and  his  under  lip  curled 
in  surprised  scorn. 

"Then  there  is  really  something  in  it;  I 
hadn't  put  any  confidence  in  the  rumors,"  he 
began  deliberately,  feeling  his  way. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  replied 
Ruth  directly. 

"I  mean,"  sullenly  resumed  Woodbridge, 
"that  you  are  acting  like  a  fool  about  a  poor 
half-breed;  that  you  have  allowed  a  senti 
mental  Mexican  to  ingratiate  himself  into 
your  affections;  to  usurp  my  place." 

Ruth  changed  color,  but  answered  quietly, 
"Senor  Ybarrando  has  never  said  that  he 
loved  me;  the  love  of  such  a  man  would  be 
worthy  any  woman's  consideration." 

Enraged,  vanquished,  Woodbridge  turned 
abruptly  as  though  he  would  go. 

"No,  I  am  not  going  back  yet,"  said  Ruth, 
sitting  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bluff,  "we 
would  better  say  good-bye  here,"  and  she 
272 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

reached  out  her  hand,  the  gesture  was  one  of 
dismissal. 

He  stepped  up  to  her,  looking  down  com- 
miseratingly.  "You  know  what  you  are  do 
ing,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  and  eyeing  her  stead 
ily  for  an  instant,  he  strode  away. 

The  afternoon  had  waned,  already  the  sun 
was  dropping  seaward,  and  the  mountain-is 
land  that  all  day  had  scintillated  out  in  the 
deep,  was  darkening  with  violet  and  purple 
shadows.  The  ocean,  stretching  in  lines  of 
infinitude  to  the  horizon,  breathed  tranquilly, 
no  life  moved  upon  the  face  of  the  waters, 
not  the  tiniest  sail  was  to  be  seen;  the  cur 
tained  windows  of  the  lighthouse  emphasized 
the  loneliness  of  the  spot;  a  troop  of  gulls, 
flying  south,  grew  dimmer,  disappearing  alto 
gether. 

Ruth  sat  motionless,  her  hat  lay  at  her 
feet,  her  flushed  cheeks  were  buried  in  her 
hands  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  dis 
tant  sea  line — it  was  that  way  her  soul 
looked.  In  abandoning  this  tie  of  her  youth, 

273 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

in  choosing  to  love  Esteban,  she  had  done 
with  the  old  conventional  life  and  its  narrow 
ing  influences  forever.  For  the  moment  she 
became  part  of  the  solitude  of  the  place;  she 
longed  to  sit  there  on  the  barren  bluff  indefi 
nitely. 

There  was  a  footstep,  she  turned,  half 
afraid,  unwilling  to  be  interrupted  in  her  ex 
quisite  isolation.  The  tall  mustard  stalks 
swayed  and  Esteban  much  to  Ruth's  astonish 
ment  came  over  the  mesa.  Ruth  looked  up 
but  she  did  not  stir;  she  could  not  for  the 
tumult  in  her  soul.  Close  to  her  side  he 
came  and  took  the  hand  she  offered  him. 

Neither  spoke  for  an  instant. 

"I  have  come  from  visiting  my  father's 
grave  in  the  campo  santo,"  and  Esteban 
waved  his  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  little 
graveyard  lying  below  the  mesa.  Underneath 
the  sadness  in  his  voice,  there  was  a  tremulous 
delight  at  seeing  her. 

"I  wanted  to  write  to  you  when  I  heard 
— but  I  thought  you  would  be  on  the  way 
274 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

home,  that  my  letter  would  not  reach  you. 
I  know  of  your  devotion  to  your  father  Don 
Dolores,  I  know  your  grief.  I  wanted  to 
tell  you  how  keenly  I  felt  at  having  taken 
you  away,  you  might  have  been  with  him  at 
the  last,  forgive  me,  I  have  given  you  much 
trouble,  pain— 

Esteban  turned  impatiently,  "That  you 
have  never  done,  you  have  given  me  life,  in 
spiration,  Senorita."  Drawing  nearer,  he 
sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bluff,  a  little  be 
low  her,  looking  up  with  the  old  unsatisfied 
hunger  in  his  eyes.  His  words  came  slowly, 
softly.  "It  is  very  beautiful  here."  He 
took  off  his  hat,  and  flinging  his  head  back 
against  the  bluff,  closed  his  eyes,  a  smile 
of  contentment  on  his  lips. 

Ruth  waited. 

"It  was  strange  to  find  you  here  today," 
he  murmured,  opening  his  eyes  and  glancing 
timidly  at  her.  "I  thought  when  we  parted 
at  the  camp,  that  we  should  never  meet 
again— and  to  find  you  here,"  he  went  on  be- 

275 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

wildered  with  joy,  "to  find  you  here,"  he 
fondled  the  words. 

Ruth  watched  him.  He  looked  wearily 
at  the  sea ;  for  some  reason  she  felt  that  the 
hour  was  his  to  say  in  it  what  he  would;  no 
thought  of  hers  should  intrude. 

Presently  Esteban  spoke  again, 

"Would  you  come,  Senorita?  It  will  be 
in  the  little  church — "  and  he  looked  toward 
the  village  far  away  behind  them— "the 
wedding;  I  am  going  to  marry  my  cousin 
Francisca."  He  spoke  as  though  the  words 
were  of  no  import  for  himself,  without  sig 
nificance  to  his  listener. 

Ruths'  eyes  were  blinded.  The  fervid 
earth,  the  radiant  sky,  the  calm,  azure  sea 
were  withdrawn;  she  was  sinking  into  an 
abyss,  black,  engulfing. 

"You  were  children  together,"  was  all  she 
said  after  a  little. 

"Yes,  Francisca  was  my  father's  youngest 
sister's  child,  her  father  was  a  Peruvian  sea- 
captain—lost  at  sea.  She  always  lived  with 
276 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

us  at  the  rancho,"  said  Esteban. 

"A  Peruvian !  That  accounts  perhaps  for 
her  singular  beauty,  she  is  very  handsome." 
Ruth  spoke  in  strained  tones,  each  syllable 
choking  her. 

"When  I  came  back,"  continued  Esteban, 
"I  found  that  Francisca  was  going  with  a 
low  American.  He  plans  her  ruin,  I  must 
save  the  girl.  I  do  not  love  her,"  and  for 
a  single  instant,  he  let  the  passion  of  his  life 
into  his  dark  eyes,  turning  them  full  upon 
Ruth's  over-leaning  face.  He  had  raised 
himself  into  an  upright  position,  his  hands 
moving  nervously,  his  voice  earnest  and  low. 
"I  used  to  be  able  to  do  anything  with  Fran 
cisca,"  he  went  on,  "she  was  always  a  child 
to  me.  I  have  not  seen  her  yet  nor  spoken 
to  her,  perhaps  I  can  influence  her,  I  must 
not  let  her  perish.  Besides,  what  is  my  life 
worth?  She  is  at  least  one  of  my  race  whom 
I  may  save.  You  will  come  then  Senorita, 
a  handful  of  people  in  the  little  church  be 
low  the  mesa?" 

277 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

"Yes,  yes,  I  shall  come,"  answered  Ruth 
wanderingly,  and  they  both  arose,  for  a  chill 
was  in  the  air. 

The  twilight  still  wrought  its  mystic  spell 
upon  the  water;  but  as  they  turned  their 
faces  to  the  land,  the  warmth,  the  glow, 
were  gone,  and  the  path  was  hard  to  find. 

"We  must  keep  together,"  said  Esteban, 
helping  Ruth  around  a  clump  of  cactus, 
"there  are  many  barrancas  and  the  rabbit 
holes  are  treacherous."  On  they  hurried 
hand  in  hand,  closed  in  by  the  sleeping  hills 
and  the  uncertain  glimmering  light.  Breath 
less,  Ruth  stopped. 

"Let  us  rest  for  a  moment,"  she  gasped. 

Releasing  her  hand,  they  sat  down  on  the 
mesa  level,  with  their  faces  turned  to  the 
enchanted  water.  Far  out  in  mid-ocean,  the 
mountain-island  was  drifting  slowly,  slowly 
away;  near  and  black  the  headlands  loomed; 
before  them  lay  the  twilight  sea,  purple, 
dark,  illumined;  only  the  importunate  wind, 
interrupted  at  intervals  by  the  long  wash  of 
278 


NOT  OF  HER  RACE 

the  surf  on  the  far  beach  below,  broke  the 
stillness. 

Suddenly  Ruth  turned  to  Esteban.  "I 
meant  to  let  you  go  undeceived,  to  let  you 
sacrifice  yourself  to  Francisca;"  she  hoarsely 
whispered,  looking  up  into  Esteban's  face  and 
seizing  one  of  his  hands,  "but  that"— and  she 
pointed  to  the  vision  of  fading  water — "the 
beauty  of  it  all  is  like  God  commanding  me. 
I  do  not  love  Gerald  Woodbridge.  I  shall 
never  be  his  wife,  Esteban,"  and  she  leaned 
tenderly  toward  him. 

Breathing  quick  and  hard,  with  transfig 
ured  face,  Esteban  bent  forward,  catching  the 
girlish  figure  passionately  to  his  breast. 

"Queridita,  mi  queridita,"  he  murmured 
through  sobs,  as  one  golden  star  brightened 
the  silent  spaces  above  them. 


279 


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